#i forgot my meds again so my brain is soup today

[imherefortheakirafanart]

every time i finish coloring a comic page i have to have a cool down. this is my special attack, please be patient

[hiperacid2]

Of Migraines and Bad Days - M. Izuku

wc: 0.9k -ish

cw: gn!reader(no pronouns used), a few pet names (baby, love, bug idk why but i threw it there and it stuck), kind of a sickfic? reader has a migraine, definetly not proofread

a/n: SUPER self indulgent, based on my migraines that make me throw up + cry bc of the pain and fuse myself with my blankets, i'm not that happy with the ending so might try writing another in the future? sickfics arent something i read willingly 🥲

It was fine one minute, the next it was like a drill trying to split open your skull, it hurt to breathe, the birds singing and the sound of your heart was like a stabbing wound and the sunlight made you want to rip off your eyes to make the pain stop. You swear under your breath, the day was already going so bad, work was hell with all the new interns, the trip home was horrible; you had to let go of two trains to ride one without having an elbow to the face, it was like everone decided to take the train today, one villain attack with hostages in your area, and with you now standing in the middle of your kitchen planning dinner, of course a migraine was bound to happen, it was too much to wish for the day to end on a good note.

"Motherfucker could not wait until after dinner" you mutter, "where's the migraine medicine?". Walking to the living room cabinet that has first aid kits and pain meds felt like having a heavy metal band doing a wild concert in your brain, but still bearable, at least you could still move on your own. But as said, the day was horrible and it was too much wish for it to end peacefully; you ran out of migraine medicine and forgot to refill it. Taking out your phone you call Izuku.

After 4 headpounding rings he picks up "Baby? is everything okay?" you grimace at his almost scream, he must be in a crowded street for him to talk that loud, or it may be the fucking monster of a headache incoming too. "No," you cut him before he jumps on an anxious rampage "but it's nothing serious, we just ran out of my meds and I have one hell of a migraine" the next words come almost as a sob, "could you please bring some on the way home?". The next time he speaks is almost as a whisper and you swear that if you could kiss him through the phone you would "Of course Love, my patrol hopefully ends in about half an hour," he pauses, "do you think you can wait a bit more than 40 minutes until i'm home?" you hum an affirmative, to which he continues, even more softer "in the agency infirmary they must have some of your meds, see you home, love ya!", and before you can force yourself to speak, he hangs up.

Knowing he isn't going to call again, you discard your phone in the living room table, and on the way to bed you enter the kitchen and take one of the gel packs out of the freezer whispering "this'll do until he gets home", every step feels like hell, and closing your eyes adds to the nausea. And if it wasnt so painful moving maybe you could wait Izu under the cold water of the shower. Once you make it to your room, closing the door behind you, you throw the gel pack on the bed and close the blinds until theres not a ray of sunlight visible, changing to comfy pjs and burying yourself into the bed between the fluffy pillows and blankets, now waiting for Izuku.

Between the pain, being drowsy from it and the relief of the cold in your head, time seems to pass quickly and you kind of fall asleep, because the next thing you hear is the soft click of the front door, followed by a soft "I'm home!". Finally, your savior is here with godsend medicine. After some time, the bedroom door opens barely enough for your husband to slip in, "Hi baby, here's some medicine and water" he whispers, barely audible "I've also asked Shouto to bring us soup from that place you like, if you feel like eating later" you hear the sound of glass hit the bedside table and feel the bed dip where he sits, and then a soft, careful kiss on your forehead.

That kiss was the straw that broke the camels back and you started sobbing, "Izu, it hurts so bad, I had the worst day in the world, everything went wrong the whole day," you sniffle "and I wanted to wait for you with dinner ready, but then it started to hurt so much I almost couldn't see", he shushes you "I know bug, take your medicine and try to sleep" you let out a watery laugh "stop making fun of me, I'm not a moth". "But look at you in this fine cocoon!" he hands you the glass of water and the pill, giving you a pinch in the cheek, and takes it back when you're done, "Now sleep, bug" you pout at the nickname, but it goes undetected due to the darkness of the room.

"Would you stay with me until I fall asleep?" He almost doesn't catch it, due to how low you said it, as if fearing he would ever said no to you. "Of course baby, but first let me take off my jacket". You pout at the loss of warmth, but as fast as he got up, he was back at your side, now inviting you in his embrace. "Thank you for staying Izu" and almost inaudible, but he could feel you mouthing "I love you" in his chest. After another kiss on your forehead, he starts to lightly pet your hair, and in the loving embrace of your husband, your last thought before finally falling in a painless sleep was 'I hope you're always there to make this migraines go away, it would be hell to go through them alone'.

reblogs are appreciated!!

do not repost or translate!! this work belongs to hiperacid2

[ukthxbye]

Three-word-prompts: weary, telenovela, comfort (sherlolly). Please?

Here is it :)

on ao3

“You have a cold, Molly,”

“I’m fine,” she sniffled. And then proceeded to sneeze five times with a cough to follow.

“No, you are not. Home,” he commanded, turning her from the direction of her office, with a hand on her back directing her path.

“Sherlock really…”

“Don’t try it. You’re going home.”

Too weary to argue, she walked with him outside, texting her superior. She fell half asleep in the cab, leaned against the window its coolness made her headache lessen.

“Thank you, Sherlock, I think I can manage now,” she managed, struggling for her keys in her pocket at her door.

He reached around her, used his own to open the door and ushered her inside and to the sofa. He pushed her shoulders down, and she complied, sinking into the comfort of being home.

Shrugging his coat off and then his suit jacket, he hung them near her door and strode to her kitchen without a word.

Loud rifling through her pantry and refrigerator and a loud grunt were all she heard before he came around back into the sitting room, exasperation evident.

“It seems you and I have much in common.”

“How?” she asked, dabbing her nose with a new tissue.

He rolled his eyes for a moment but it was not at the question. “Neither of us believe in the concept of keeping actual food in our homes. Though yours is bereft of spare parts for experiments which would have helped with the eventual boredom.”

She pulled her chin into her neck, confused, “I don’t do those things at home”

“But I am staying here to help and eventually you’ll sleep and I’ll get bored.”

“No you don’t have to stay, Sher–er…achoo!”

“Mmmhhmm”  is all he answered. “I am going to the chemist, I’ll be back”

“No I ‘ate how mets make pheel,” she murmured out with a very stuffy nose, before blowing it loudly.

“No matter. You need them.  Be back in a few,” he smiled as he slipped on his coat and stepped out her door.

She scrolled social media her phone for while waiting for him. She wondered why this was longer than just a trip to the chemist. She almost started looking up delivery for food, quite sure he got caught on a case. But she had switched over to Youtube and was watching funny cat videos when she heard the key in her door.

He placed an armload of items on the counter and she eased up off the sofa to look at his haul.

Boots meds in one bag that she rummaged through.

As stuffy as her nose was, a wonderful smell permeated it as he began opening containers. “Pho. Best cold cure I know,” he grinned as he searched for bowls in her cabinet. He found two large glass ones and she was too hungry and exhausted to inform him they were mixing bowls. Corner of her lips curled, watching him carefully assemble the soup and noodles and meat. He added so much chili sauce her the bowls she paused.

“Um I like spicy but–”

“It will clear your head, its worth the pain I promise,” he chuckled, setting a bowl of steaming pho in front of her.

“Sit, eat, now,” he directed, setting his own bowl beside hers.

“Water?”

“Yes, good idea” He gets them both a large glass of water.

They sat in quiet, slurping their soup and gulping water to quench the fire. She would have stuffed a tissue up her nose if she was by herself but decided against it in his presence. Her nose ran constantly but he didn’t seem to notice. He typed on his phone while slurping up a noodle.

“If you need to, you know, you got a case or anything…” she spoke softly, “I’ll be good, really”

“I can solve these from my phone, they are barely a 4,” he sniffed.

She swallowed hard, asking “Why are you doing this?”

He cocked his head, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “We are friends,” he breathed out quickly and then tipped his bowl up to drink the last of his broth.

She didn’t look at him but smiled to herself as she finished the last of hers. Her head felt much clearer and she could breathe out one side of her nose at least.

He moved to the sofa, slipping his shoes off. “I am here for the day to make sure you get well,” he grinned.

One part of her logical brain thought he wanted a favor but the weary part of her mind accepted maybe he is just being nice for once and also maybe he is a bit lonely today. She knows John is on holiday after all.

“I’m going to get into something more comfortable, “ she advised, then realized too late the typical nature of those words as her cheeks coloured. “I MEAN… just some comfy, baggy pyjamas…and a robe probably.”

He appeared to take no notice of the slip, his face remained neutral.

“I wish I could join you,” he started, and added quickly “With the comfy clothes that is, of course.”

She turned her head to hide her awkward smirk. “I think you have a pair of pyjamas still here actually.”

“Ah”

“I’ll bring them in here for you if you want to change…that is if you are staying tonight.” She kept her head turned away, emptying her pockets onto the side table near her as an excuse not look at him.

“That may be the plan yes. We’ll see how you feel.”

She nodded and retreated to her room.

She found her favorite pajama bottoms and an old well-worn uni t-shirt. Big fuzzy dressing gown soothed her as the symptoms started to come back. She shuffled back to the couch, his neatly folded pyjamas in hand.

She flopped into her usual spot.

He was standing the kitchen, preparing tea and a fresh glass of water.

“Here drink this, and take these pills, “ he advised, handing her the water while setting down her tea.

She watched his pause, hand on the pyjamas, before he grabbed them up and went down the hall without a word, she presumed to change. She turned on the telly and found the channel she always looked for when she was sick.

Well, this is a helluva thing, she thought to herself. If she had a fever, she would assume this was all a hallucination, a fevered dream. But she knew the warmth she felt as he returned to join her on the sofa was not virally provoked.

Her robe suddenly became too toasty as he sat near her.

“I don’t want to make you sick, Sherlock,” she attempted to warn without conveying her awareness of his nearness.

He rolled his eyes a bit and gave her a side glance “I am already exposed and you know this. Hardly worth worrying about now.”

She felt her head start to ache again and closing her eyes, she laid her head against the back of the sofa near his shoulder  

He stared in silence at the television for a few moments, arms folded.

“Is this really what you want to watch?”

She cracked an eye open, searching his face for a moment before answering.

“I had a flatmate in uni from Mexico. We both got the flu one week and took care of each other. We found a channel showing telenovelas and just watched them the whole time we were sick.”

She shrugged, “Since then I like to watch them when I don’t feel good.”

“It’s the same drivel as our own television, only more colors and a different language”

“Mmhmm still like it anyway,” she murmured, the medicine starting to take its effect and ease her headache.

Soon she was asleep.

Her head shifted to his shoulder and in her sleep she settled into it, her hand landing near his. She snored softly but that was to be expected, and he ignored it.

He stiffened at the contact when her head fell into his arm, but relaxed letting her cuddle up close with no protest.

He wanted to throw his arms up that the detective in the show still has not solved the murder after an hour but he stayed still to let her sleep. But soon his arm became tingly and as he shifted he forgot to make sure she stayed upright. Her head slid down his arm and before he could catch her, she shifted in her sleep.

Now her head was laying on his thigh, and her hand on his knee. He froze in place, unsure whether to move over and let her head fall to the sofa. But he was trying to keep up with the story as well. He grabbed the pillow next to him and slipped it under her head instead, she seemed settled and sleeping peacefully. He knew this was the best medicine, despite the brief moment of thoughts and sentiment he felt watching her laying there.

And he recorded in his mind every millimeter of her face in sleep for his room for her in his mind palace without even realizing it. He pushed away those musings and focused on the inane but distracting storyline on the telly.

So there she slept for another hour.

His own weariness, or perhaps it was boredom, he found no interest in the repeating storylines. He stared down Molly, sleeping quietly. He followed the compulsion to move her hair from her face, after all, it might bother her in her sleep he reminded himself. He ignored that little quake in his chest as his fingers gently moved the chestnut strands behind her ear. He restrained reaction as she shifted once more in her sleep. He only thought of her comfort, which was a new process he found oddly relieving.

He wanted to lay his head down; he had found her sofa quite comfortable before for sleep. But he didn’t know what to do with her. In more than one way, he thought to himself. He resigned himself to the position he was in and let his mind slip off into slumber, his head leaned back on the sofa.

When she woke for a few minutes late in the night, she wondered if she indeed was feverish.

Laying down, her head rested on his arm, and she found her eyes focusing on the gray t-shirt he chose to sleep in. She risked looking up to see his stubbled chin.

He was holding her tight to him, and she gulped at the realization her arm was laying across his side rising and falling with his slow breathing.

When did this happen? Was this the meds? She ran her thoughts in circles but she knew he was not sick, he was under no influence. Something unconscious happened. But it felt too good for her to ruin it now.

Maybe I should have colds more often. Enjoy it and let the morning bring what it brings, she reminded herself as she snuggled in his arms, and he returned it in his sleep.

[relucant]

i am legit so terrified my mother is going to give herself a stroke before i escape in a week. and because she cares about nothing except her own anxiety and the cat, despite my begging her in literal tears to help put a plan in place for what happens to my father if that does happen, to the shock of no one, she has done zero to make that happen even a little.

i mean, the cat is sick, which obviously puts her even more on edge than always -- i love the cat more than life itself and i would take a bullet for him in an instant, but he is pretty much her therapy animal and the only thing keeping her even remotely tethered to this earth. and he’s 11, and has liver problems, so yeah. it’s scary. but like, it’s also basically textbook UTI -- which last week at the vet, even before he started feeling sick, the vet was like “i’m going to go ahead and test him for a UTI, i think it might be possible.” i hate it when people are like “oh, it’s okay, he’ll be fine!” because maybe he won’t be, and that’s terrifying, but also like... the cat’s having some intestinal ickiness and doesn’t feel good isn’t quite apocalyptic yet.

and my father is garbage to be in the same room as, absolutely, but like... there’s also ways to cope somewhat with him, and she just is in such a constant spiral of literally paralytic anxiety that she just... won’t do absolutely anything to make her life slightly less miserable even it requires changing her behavior even a tiny bit.

“he just... he just came in here earlier, and just, i had all the magazines stacked up on the chair, and he just picked them up and threw them on the bed!” okay yeah, because he’s an asshole with dementia, but like, can you tell him not to do that? “stop attacking me!”

having a full-on panic attack, sucking in breaths, finally gasping out, “he- he came in here, and he said he was going to do laundry!” while bursting into full sobbing. “he- he can’t do his laundry! he doesn’t use bleach, and he- he just throws his underwear full of shit into the laundry!” yeah dude, that’s fucking awful. but erupting in earsplitting shrieks of “NO YOU CAN’T FUCKING WASH YOUR UNDERWEAR YOU HAVE A PAIR BECAUSE I JUST FUCKING CHECKED” well, have you considered, “no, don’t, they need to be bleached, i’ll do it tomorrow.” 

obviously, “calm down” has never made any situation better in the entire history of anything, ever. and her situation sucks. mine is probably worse in the immediate, because i have two parents who don’t know or care that, like, i’m a human being and not their maid/emotional support punching bag, respectively, but i have a way out, and she doesn’t, so that’s awful. and it’s going to be awful, at least until he dies, but again, like, it doesn’t have to be absolutely, intentionally as horrifying awful as it can possibly be, because making anything a little better would require her, like, doing something.

i keep trying to get on her case about looking into, like, actually getting treatment for her crippling anxiety disorder, even though i’ve been on this futile merrygoround for at least a decade and the circle never changes, because she’s so wrapped up in her cocoon of anxiety i don’t think she wants it to change.

every single time i bring up the possibility of just talking to someone about how bad it is -- like, i dunno, her shrink to start with, who it’s a miracle i even finally got her to go to that even, and i am dubious she’ll continue after i leave, even though she likes her shrink and also her shrink will come to the house, or even just her GP, who she also likes -- she just immediately reverts into, like, “well, maybe i should just start taking my xanax every day again.” no like, dude, that’s like... not a treatment for chronic anxiety. “well it says anxiety on the bottle.” yes. for like... a plane trip.

this exact back and forth has happened probably 50+ times, and she just deletes it and reuses it over and over.

“but -- but i don’t want to quit drinking! i can’t, not right now with what’s going on!” like honestly fair enough, that train has left the station. so like... okay, don’t. if you go to a doctor who refuses to treat you unless you quit drinking, like... go to a different doctor. i asked my shrink, and she’s kinda like yeah, obviously, drinking isn’t great on psych meds, but for most anxiety meds, it mostly just decreases their effectiveness (and don’t drive, which she doesn’t anyway), not kill you, and still probably better than nothing.

and then after the xanax response, and then the drinking response, she just shuts down any further attempt at the conversation and starts crying about whatever asshole thing my father last did, which she completely did not in any way at any time ask or tell him to, like, not do that. until she’s so upset she starts banshee shrieking at him for doing a thing she never once told him not to do. (or vice versa)

and i realized the other night that what gets to me so much (among a million other things) is like... the exact shitty ways he behaviors towards her, and that she comes sobbing to me about, are like... unsettlingly similar to ways she behaviors towards me, if in different ways.

like, come into her room, sit down, talk blankly at her about stupid shit and then get annoyed when she tries to actually respond? kiiinda like every time she comes into my room, sits down, complains to me about the exact same thing she complained about last night, and then gets upset when i try to have a back and forth conversation.

“he just -- he just says the same thing, over and over! five times in the last two days if we have money for the gardener! he’s asked me twice today what the baby’s name is! he told me three times he’s going to go get the mail! it’s like talking to a r*tarded toddler!” (excuse that word, not sure how to rephrase)

yes mom, and that’s the 10th time this week you’ve said it’s like talking to a toddler, and i’ve said yes, it is like talking to a toddler, because he has dementia, he cannot form new memories, and two minutes later you just wail that it’s like talking to a toddler, again.

and the cycle continues, because i know perfectly well it’s as pointless to think there’s any chance of her making any significant changes in her behavior or grasp on her mental health, any more so than my father whose brain is nearly chewed up and spat out by now. but she’s still in there just enough that i can’t help feeling like i could almost get through to her if i could figure out how. and when she’s not near my father, like when we were up in new jersey with my brother and sister in law and baby nephew, her anxiety abated to the point that lke, yeah, she still had a meltdown when faced with like, a single step, despite being surrounded by three able-bodied adult humans, but overall, mentally, was like at like 70% a fairly normal elderly woman, kinda dotty but doting on her grandchild and puppies and basking in at least one of her children turning out with an apple pie life (about 15 years later, but still pretty perfect). and so i’m haunted by all the what-ifs, what if she can just survive until my father dies and she’ll be okay, so maybe i can still help, so maybe i should keep trying, even though i know, i know, i know.

and i try to keep in mind that it’s also easier for me because, like, my father more or less likes me, as a person -- i don’t think he’s ever loved me, or is capable of love (except for our pets, which honestly is a fairly big redeeming factor, i suppose) but he thinks i’m interesting, and my brother, and that if he was manipulated into having kids by whatever the hell he used to do, his resentment of our existence is tempered somewhat by the fact that he’s kinda pleased with how we turned out, and i have one or two pleasant memories of sitting on the trunk of his old car as a small child pointing out the pleiades, or drunkenly reciting ts eliot on the kitchen floor. my mother does not get that leeway; he thinks (or acts, at least) that since he did his duty and got married and procreated, her entire existence should be devoted to his convenience -- not even comfort, just convenience, and making herself exist as little as possible.

which plays into the cycle again because then i, unfairly, resent my mother for that more than him, because it genuinely did not occur to me even as a precocious kid that fathers were supposed to, like, love their children until i was at least in middle school if not later; it still jars me sometimes, bitterly, when i see dads who are just like in love with their kids. but my mom was my mom, so as it became clear that she never actually wanted to, like, parent anyone either, she’s the one my hurt and pissiness channels to.

anyway if anyone actually read all of this, i know i say the same shit over and over about this, but it’s so complicated not many of the few people i talk to one on one know what’s going, and i don’t want to over-vent, but i feel like i’m about to claw my skin off with the anger and frustration and regret, so thanks.

in a funny-scary sign-off, so i finally convinced my mother to get a mini-freezer so i can stock it full of real food before i bounce to eurasia next week, and it came today; instructions said to let it sit for a few hours after getting it in place before plugging it in, so i hauled it into a convenient dining room corner and forgot it. fast forward i come out to the kitchen to check on the huge vat of minestone soup i’m making and my father is lumbering triumphantly out of the kitchen pantry with a frayed probably 40 year old extension cord in his hand.

i blink at him, immediately concerned. he’s like, “i think i’ll go ahead and hook up that new... thing-a-ma-jig! ‘cause the thing on the plug, it’s got the three things [prongs], but the things in the walls, they’ve only got the two things! so i’m gonna just go ahead and plug it in here!”

i’m like, “NONONONONONONO!” because like (a) common sense and (b) the manual was specifically like do not do NOT use an extension cord, and if you MUST make ABSOLUTELY SURE it has these EXACT SPECIFICATIONS and is IN NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM SOME DECREPIT CORD-SNAKE YOU DUG OUT OF THE DUSTY BOWELS OF YOUR KITCHEN PANTRY (i may have exaggerated that last bit). he’s like what?? i explain that to him, in fewer words, and that i in fact have an adapter specifically to convert two-prong to three-prong.

he’s mystified, demands explanation of how that works; i try to elaborate, that i put the two prong end in the wall and plug the freezer into the three-prong end, and just blank looks. “well i don’t think that’s going to work, i think we should just use this.” i just kinda take it, tell him i’ve got it under control, ignore his aggrieved hissing, and walk away.

i go to tell my mom this, because like gallows humor or gtfo i guess -- she’s like jesus even i realize that’s not a good idea -- and only then do i realize that the extension cord he had so proudly produced was in fact a two prong... to a two prong. so either he didn’t notice that, or more likely, just intended to jam the two prongs into the extension cord and just leave the third prong kinda just... out.

and it’s sad as hell, because dude was an electrical engineer who worked at the absolute cutting-edge of the aerospace industry, like literally worked on apollo 11 at cape canaveral and dementia has eaten his brain to the point he doesn’t understand plugs. but. sometimes you take the laughs where you can get it.

anyway one week one day from right now my plane takes off so please can just like (a) my cat (b) my mother and (c) my father hang on that long (in that order) until i have enough distance to get my fucking head on straight again for a tiny little bit.

[elsaclack]

This is really random but I saw a fic of yours about Amy being sick (I think the prompt was "Amy yells at the Vulture") but I can't find the full piece anywhere. Is it on AO3 anywhere? I love your writing and I completely understand if you just didn't want it out anymore. Just thought I'd ask! :)

i thought it was but i just went and searched my entire work history (including all 70+ chapters of those god-forsaken oneshot collections) and i couldn’t find it anywhere!! i guess i forgot to cross-post it back when i first wrote it, and it got lost when i deleted the original elsaclack. but i just scoured my docs list and found it buried in a random folder so i’ll repost it here and add it to the newest one-shot collection on ao3 :)

fun fact: this was written almost exactly 2 years ago!!! meaning that my writing skills have developed considerably since i actually wrote this. aka please don’t judge me if this seems like a sudden regression haha

also i wanna tag @phil-the-stone-art bc we actually developed the concept of The List together so she’s at least 35% responsible for this fic lmao

under the cut!

Amy Santiago does not get sick, thank you very much. She prides herself on her meticulous nightly hygienic rituals, on the cabinet full of multivitamins and minerals she takes on a daily basis in her bathroom, on the rigorous workout routine and diet she keeps herself on each week to maintain perfect health. She lives her life by a very tight plan (laid out in checklists and carefully organized in color-coded binders) that simply does not afford her any extra time to be sick.

Which is why, when she wakes up one Tuesday morning with a head stuffed full of cotton and violent shivers rolling down her spine, she gets up to start her usual routine in spite of the fact that she feels like she hasn’t actually slept in three weeks. Jake’s still snoring on the other side of the bed, another hour away from getting up to haphazardly dress in whatever flannel he can find lying on her bedroom floor that doesn’t smell too dirty, and he doesn’t even stir at the sound of her shuffling footsteps or running nose.

She drags herself into the bathroom, shuts the door, and flicks the lights on. Her reflection honestly makes her jump back an inch or two; she’s never seen her skin quite so pale, or bruises beneath her eyes quite so dark, or her lips quite so visibly dry and cracked. She reaches out to grip the edges of her sink and realizes that her arms and hands are trembling, and when she leans a bit more weight onto them she notes that her knees are quaking beneath her.

All in all, not a great start to the day.

She presses on, though, ignoring her running nose and congested head and general exhaustion. The shower helps a little, but not much.

When she shuts the water off, she hears Jake moving around in her bedroom, and her heart skips a beat. She hadn’t even realized she’d been in the shower that long. “Jake?” She calls as she wraps a towel around herself. Her voice is coarse and rough.

“Hey,” he knocks lightly at the door. “You okay?”

“Yeah - yeah, could you, um…there’s a binder out on the dining room table, should say something on the cover about that case I was working on last night -” she clears her throat and winces at the sharp pain that responds “- could you grab it and put it in my bag?”

“Sure,” he’s quiet for a moment and Amy’s left to gently rub at her temples with the heels of her hands. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound awful.”

“I’m…I’m fine.”

But she’s not. Her knees are still quaking and vertigo has suddenly set in and she’s swaying, reaching out to grab the tiled edge of her shower. Her hand slips against the wet surface and she falls forward, shoulder banging painfully into the tiles.

The door swings open and Jake bursts inside in a panic. “Ames? Oh my God!” She suddenly realizes that she’d sunk down to a crouching position upon falling. He kneels next to her, gently pulling her away from the shower and letting her lean heavily into him. Her head falls against his shoulder, forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, and she hears him tut. “You’re burning up, babe,” he says quietly.

“I’m fine,” her voice fails half-way through and she ends up finishing in an unconvincing whisper.

“You’re not going to work today,” he tells her.

“But -”

“You almost fainted just now, Amy. You’re staying home sick today.”

She tries to argue but he pulls her up off the ground, keeping his touch firm and steady should gravity leave her again, and her voice completely dies on the way out of the bathroom. He lets her whisper weak arguments as he steers her gently toward the bed, humming and nodding along as he pulls fresh sweatpants up her legs and eases one of his academy shirts over her head. He pushes back on her good shoulder with just enough force that she lays down and pulls the comforter up to her chin. Her eyelids flutter closed when he presses a kiss against her forehead.

“I’ll tell Captain Holt where you are,” he says quietly. His hand finds hers against the mattress, fingers twisting through hers. “Get some sleep, okay?”

She’s asleep before he even gets out the front door.

A few hours later she’s roused by the sound of her phone vibrating on her bedside table. Sunlight streams in through her window and she squints, disoriented, fumbling around with semi-numb fingers for her phone.

From: Jake PeraltaHow u feelin? Miss u at work. Charles says he’ll bring u goat soup later lol

It hurts to even swallow, and Amy has to work really hard to keep from whining at the splitting headache igniting behind her right eye.

To: Jake PeraltaFeel like garbage. I haev a headache. Im afraid to get out of bed for meds. Miss u too

She waits five minutes for him to respond, and when her phone remains motionless, she closes her eyes and lets it fall against her chest.

Precisely twenty minutes after that, she hears her front door open. It closes again and she hears footsteps crossing her living room and it only just hits her that someone is in her apartment when those footsteps cross the threshold of her bedroom.

“Hey, hey, don’t get out of bed,” Jake says soothingly. Amy falls back against her pillow from her struggling half-sitting up position as Jake drops a plastic grocery bag at the foot of her bed and perches on the edge of the mattress beside her. He replaces her phone back on her bedside table with one hand and smooths his other palm over her forehead (and she only just then realizes that she’s sweating) and grimaces. “You’re still burning up,” he says, running his fingers through her hair just above her forehead.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, and the words slip out between two wet coughs.

He frowns and gently scratches his short nails against her scalp. “I brought Advil,” he says, casting an absent glance over his shoulder at the bag he brought in, “and stuff to make soup. It’s the recipe for Nana’s matzoh ball soup.” She raises her eyebrows beneath his palm and he grins down at her. “Don’t tell Charles, but it’s literally the best soup you’ll ever have and it’ll cure your dumb cold in twenty minutes or less.”

“Promise?”

He leans down and pecks a kiss against her forehead. “Promise,” he says when he leans away. “I’m gonna go make some and bring it in here and you’ll be back on your feet before the end of the day. Peralta Guarantee.” He winks.

She sinks down into the mattress as much as she can when he stands up, opening her eyes only when he comes back in with two Advil tablets and a glass half-full of water. Within minutes she begins hearing pots and pans knock around in her kitchen, and through her cloudy mind she registers that her stomach is rumbling in irritation.

“Alright,” he announces from her doorway. Her eyes split open and he’s carefully balancing the soup bowl on top of her dresser. “I’ll help you sit up, don’t move.”

He pulls her up with one hand and waits until she’s sitting up steadily before hurriedly stacking her pillows up behind her. She breathes a sigh of relief when she leans back, not realizing just how much of a strain sitting up is until that moment. He hurries back to where the soup is still steaming and carefully brings it over to her, the tip of his tongue appearing at the corner of his mouth for how hard he has to concentrate on not spilling any.

He nestles it in her lap, and she smiles, because he looks so proud of himself and he’s really so adorable.

Jake stays with her until she finishes the whole bowl and then he takes her dishes from her and quickly rinses them out in her sink.

“I’ll be back after work to check on you and to finish cleaning that, okay?” He calls from her doorway.

She hums hoarsely and fades out of consciousness.

An hour later, Amy wakes up feeling half-human. Her head and throat still hurt and she still can’t breathe out of her nose, but her brain doesn’t feel quite so fried and her limbs don’t feel quite so weak anymore.

Jake was right - the soup really did help.

Not as much as Nyquil would, but…still.

She kicks the comforter off and moves to sit up, and her phone suddenly falls into her lap from her chest. She pauses, staring at it, trying to remember when it ended up back there. She has no new calls or texts, but when she unlocks the screen, there’s a new note pulled up.

Things i want t odo to jake in bed

Amy feels flames engulf her face that have absolutely nothing to do with her fever. The list has twelve items on it, each one raunchier and riddled with more spelling errors than the last, and by the time she gets to the end of the note she’s covering her face in embarrassment. She’s got just the vaguest memory of typing it (and it’s really more of a dream of a memory than anything else), but none of it will solidify into more than just faint snapshots in her head.

But the more she rereads it, the more heat begins building in her body - heat from the mental images, heat from the germs ravaging her body, heat from the thick comforter still draped over her legs.

She has got to go get some Nyquil.

Santiago Determination blazes through her as she drags herself out of bed, shoulders set and jaw clenched as she pulls one of Jake’s hoodies over her frame and slides her feet into her rarely-worn flip-flops. Part of her feels guilty, knowing that if Jake was the one home sick she’d insist on him texting her anything he needs so that he would stay in bed and recover faster, but she brushes it off as she grabs her purse.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

She blames her scattered brain on the matzoh ball soup later. She blames her compromised detective skills and her lack of attention to detail and her general disorientation on the soup. Because under normal circumstances, no matter how sick she truly is, she would definitely have noticed the Vulture browsing the low aisles of the bodega around the corner from her house immediately upon walking through the front doors.

But as it is, she doesn’t, which means that he gets a visual on her before she’s even aware of being spotted.

She’s so busy perusing the medicine section toward the back that she doesn’t notice him stalking around the shelves, doesn’t feel him peeking around the Doctor Scholl’s cardboard display, doesn’t hear him mutter at a mother and daughter to get out of his way as he follows her ambling walk down the aisle. She isn’t aware of the danger until he’s basically on top of her.

“Yo, Santiago,” he says, his voice low and curdling. She winces and turns slowly, and he’s leaned against the shelves to her left, leering down at her. A handcart hangs between them; it’s full of at least thirty boxes of condoms, she realizes when she glances down. Her stomach shifts unpleasantly. “You look homeless.”

“Get out of the way,” she whispers hoarsely.

“Aw, what’s the matter? Peralta got you screaming so hard every night you lost your voice?”

Heat bursts through her cheeks and she glances back, meeting the scandalized look on that same mother’s face with an apologetic grimace. “Shut up.” She snaps as fiercely as she can.

He smirks, because her voice only comes in bursts. “Damn, you really let yourself go, didn’t you?” His eyes rove her body and she’s suddenly very keenly aware of the fact that she’s not wearing any underwear beneath her sweatpants. She can feel her face blossoming.

“Whatever.” She turns away quickly and digs her phone out of her purse, cursing when she hears the Vulture following her down the aisle. She dials Jake’s number quickly, and he answers after just two rings.

“Hey, is everything oka-”

“I need you go come to the bodega by my apartment,” she whispers. She can feel her hand trembling again and she curses whatever part of her thought it would be a good idea to do this on her own.

“Wait, what? Why are you -”

“I thought I could walk over here and get what I needed without you, but -” she winces at the sound of the Vulture’s laugh, loud and obnoxious behind her. “But I ran into someone and I need you to come save me.”

“Santiago, look - they do make extra-small condoms! Should I put a whole box in for you and Peralta or is that too many?”

She hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Is that the Vulture?” He asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do not faint.”

“I’m doing my best, but please hurry.”

Amy starts pacing up and down the aisles, doing her best to block the Vulture out. He trails along behind her, alternating between making lewd sexual innuendos about random items on the shelves they pass (“Everything’s a sex toy if you try hard enough,” while pointing out a plastic broom) and insulting her general appearance (“Y’know, you were much sexier before Peralta dragged you down to his level of ugliness. Just make sure your ass doesn’t get as fat as his”). It’s around the time they make it back to the medicine aisle that he turns to making fun of Jake himself.

“I still can’t believe you’re with that loser,” he laughs as Amy finally swipes a bottle of Nyquil off a lower shelf. She stands up slowly, gripping the shelves above her firmly, as a wave of vertigo hits her once again. “You’re hot as shit usually - not right now, obviously - I bet you could sleep with any guy you want.”

She clenches her jaw and tries to calculate how long it’s been since she hung up with Jake.

“I bet the sex is really boring, too,” the Vulture continues. “I bet it’s all missionary and full of, like, eye-contact and shit. I bet he tells you he loves you because you don’t make fun of his tiny weiner.”

“Okay, y’know what?” She snaps, and suddenly her voice is half back. “First of all, there’s nothing wrong with missionary if you do it right. Secondly, you’re full of crap if you really think eye-contact is boring. Third, you’re right, he does tell me he loves me, because he actually loves me, you sexist pig. And fourth, he’s not tiny.”

“Whatever. He’s a joke, just like you, and I bet the sex sucks and you’re both so bad at it that you can’t even tell that it sucks.”

She knows people are staring, but her brain just isn’t functioning right. She yanks her phone out of her purse and quickly scrolls over to her list. “Jake’s the best sex I’ve ever had, okay? In fact, he’s so good that I made a list!” She shoves her phone in his face and scrolls quickly, grinning in manic triumph at the dumbfounded look on his face. “I made a list of all the things I want to do with him because he’s so unbelievably good. You wish you were as good as him.”

He is, for once, speechless. Amy locks her phone and steps back, smug grin on her face. The Vulture’s eyes flicker to something over her shoulder and she sees the spark of recognition in his face; when she turns, she feels her stomach drop down to her toes.

Jake’s standing at the end of the aisle, looking just as dumbstruck as the Vulture. She gasps, and the sound comes out like a ragged squeak. His mouth is hanging open but his brows draw together at the sound.

“Ja- Jake,” she says hoarsely.

This seems to snap him out of his stupor. His mouth snaps closed and he immediately begins striding down the aisle toward her and there’s something new in his eyes - smug and barely-contained glee, maybe - when he throws his arm around her shoulders. “Hi, honey,” he says, laying a kiss against her temple and pulling the bottle of Nyquil from her grasp. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

“Yeah, well, you’re both a couple of losers!” The Vulture shouts after them. Jake twists around and flashes his middle finger at him and grins into Amy’s hair at the sound of his splutters. “I’m buying thirty-five boxes of condoms!”

“You’re amazing.” Jake murmurs once they’re outside of the store. “But next time, just call me instead of trying to go get stuff on your own. I really don’t mind doing it for you. That’s what boyfriends are for.”

She sinks into the passenger’s seat of his car and sighs in relief; her body is already aching from the exertion of just a lap around the bodega. She feels Jake slide in on the driver’s side, feels the engine roar to life beneath her and the air conditioner tickle across her face. The car lurches a little when he puts it in drive and then his free hand finds hers and interlaces their fingers.

“I’m sorry about…that.” She whispers once he’s pulled away from the curb.

“It’s fine, but I really mean it about calling me next time, okay? ‘Specially since you almost fainted this morning and everything, like, what would’ve happened if you’d fallen and hit your head and they took you to the hospital? They would’ve called Manny and it would’ve taken him three hours to get here and -”

“Wait, no, they’d call you,” she interrupts. “Manny’s not my emergency contact anymore. You are.”

He turns his head toward her and stares.

“I changed it two years ago, Peralta. Way before we started dating. I just figured, y’know, since you’re my partner and everything, you’d be able to get there the fastest. And, besides, that’s not even what I was talking about. I meant…the stuff I said to the Vulture. The list.”

“Oh,” he shrugs. “I don’t really care. The guy’s an ass. I could hear him yelling all the way from the front doors. Besides, you weren’t lying.”

He squeezes her hand a few times in quick succession and she snorts. “So you’re…not mad? About any of it?”

“I’m more curious than anything else. Do I get to look at the list, too? Or is that just between you and the Vulture?”

“I can’t stand you.”

She does let him see it once they’re back to her place. He reads each item carefully three times over without ever saying a word, and then stands and grabs his laptop and a notepad off of her dining room table. When she asks what he’s doing, he responds with a muttered “research” and then promptly tells her to finish her soup.

The night passes in a haze that has nothing to do with the cold or the soup or the medicine, and the next morning she wakes to the sounds of Jake’s congested voice explaining through chest-rumbling coughs that neither he nor Amy would be making it into work that day.

[jennyreborn]

3pm. Just over 6k steps. 0 calories consumed.

I spent about three minutes on the treadmill but really needed to pee so didn’t spend longer on it, then I got busy with some drama shit I don’t care about that people won’t stop bugging me about.

I was productive this morning and did around 3k steps during it, then I finished work. Through all of this I wasn’t hungry or anything. I barely drank, I was at the 10am mark on my bottle at 12pm. Oops.

I walked my dogs about 1k steps, they didn’t want to go far

I took my daytime meds (appetite blocker and caffeine pills) around 2 and was slightly hungry but a bottle of electrolye water fixed it

I planned to walk my dogs a few more times today but couldn’t because a few minutes ago I had to change into my pyjamas. My pyjamas are huge, way way way way too big for me and they’re the only thing I’m comfortable in. Not like mentally comfortable but physically. For some reason when I’m dressed in normal clothes I eventually start itching like a mother fucker, until it forces me to change

tbh I live in the middle of nowhere and all my neighbours are assholes (except liek 2) so I might fuck around and walk the dogs in my pyjamas. who knows. do I care? nope, the nieghbours are assholes already. Their opinion is irrelevant

currently recovering from a bout of ouchy ouchy brain though. my aunt sent me some videos she found of when I was like 6.

positive: I was wearing a girl’s nightdress

negative: old name, “he” pronouns

(oh btw I haven’t mentioned on blog I’m trans, but it’s irrelevant, I’ve been on hormones 9 years and out for 20, I’m 27 now)

So hearing that caused a sinking feeling of eternal despiar but here’s the thing

Here is the FUCKING THING

I

WAS

SKINNY

I was skinny at 6. I had mild chubbiness at 8 but then again I was raised by my dad who worked like 80 hours a week and only had time to make chips/pizza/chicken nuggets/etc, quick stuff

i forgot I was actually skinny once, like what the fuck. And I am just STARING at it. I still had an ugly little face but luckily I grew out of the ugly.

But it’s kind of fucked up that I’m looking at these old pics and videos and all I see is skinny? and in one of them my aunt is like “yeah we went out and we got chips, then we went to mcdonalds and had chips AGAIN” and it’s like ooooh damn. Look at all that food. But look, I’m still NORMAL THERE

I’m skinnier than both cousins there even, and they’re the same age as me

anyway yeah

so, 3:25 now (kept getting distracted when writing it) and no hunger, mild acid reflux, and I thought I was feeling weak from no food but I think it’s just tiredness

I just put some zero cal carbonate red lemonade in a bowl and had it like soup

Fast day two

It's 4:50am. I went to bed early so I'm not tired but I'm nauseous. I'm slightly lightheaded but I think I woke up during deep sleep instead of light sleep.

For breakfast I'm having tea and a shot of espresso and I'm getting dressed early so I cna pace. I did 12.5k steps yesterday so my feet hurt too much to walk in slippers. Tbh I doubt I'll break 5k today yesterday was a special circumstance I had two dog walks and a trip to the store but I'm inside all day today

If I can rush breakfast and get some work done I can go to my gym but I'm not sure for how long. I also want to concentrate a lot on work today, one more logo design for this guy and I can afford to buy kettlebells up to 24kg. I can buy a bigger set when I master those

I got that new toothbrush I wanted and I got a new hair brush. They arrive Wednesday and Thursday. Alongside Ana I want to start taking care of my hair and teeth. I have had no reason not to so far I'm literally just lazy lmao, I brush teeth in the morning but am too tired before bed and I brush my hair like every few weeks in the shower?? Most of the time I just keep it in braids to avoid tangles, and they're easy to keep in a shower cap when I shower and cna to brush my hair

I'm working on a lot of life changes atm. Today I got out of bed before 5am which has been a goal for weeks. Before 4.30 is the next goal, I wake up at 4,15 most days

Hopefully since im not tired I won't feel sick all day with not eating this time

[remeny-writes]

Roses are red, Violets are Adored (Viadore/Katlaska/group fic)

(Sorry Kittens, this fic has pretty much outgrown my control)

Chapter 164

Katya’s point of view

I woke up in the bunk, Alaska was sprawled beside me, our bodies were entwined so thoroughly I didn’t know where I began and he ended in this cramped space.

Golden Girls was still playing on my iPad so I spaced out to that for a bit until Justin stirred. He blearily rubbed his eyes and looked around at our legs.

“Hey we’re like totally gay spaghetti!” He whispered with a giggle.

I put my hand up to my chest and gasped. “What! You’re gay?” I exclaimed in mock surprise.

“That’s what the internet says…I mean, who can argue with the internet?”

“Too true!” I mused, turning my phone on as my stomach growled, I guess the granola bars wouldn’t keep me full forever. “We’ve been sleeping for 4 hours, I don’t know about you my queen but I need to stretch my legs and forage for sustenance.”

“Sounds good!” We untangled ourselves from each other, sitting with our legs over the edge for a minute. Jinkxy was visible through the clear plastic of their curtain, snoring softly in their bunk across the way, their mouth wide open with their hands clasped under their chin looking like a little bald cherub.

We tiptoed out to the living room, where most of the queens were lounging around. Sharon and Phi Phi each had an earbud in their ear as they leaned in to watch something on Sharon’s ipad, it was evidently amusing as they were both chuckling.

Pearl and Fame were having a serious conversation about something in the corner.

Willam was laying flat on his back with his eyes closed, holding onto the seat cushion and wincing every time the bus hit the slightest bump. B sitting nearby with his arms crossed and looking worried or cranky or both. Cranrried? Woranky? His brow was so furrowed that his eyebrows were close to touching each other. Uh oh.

“Hey what’s going on?” I blurted without thinking.

“What THE FUCK do you THINK is going on Kat?” Willam glared at me and rolled his eyes before he closed them again, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

I’m such an idiot, always opening my big dumb mouth before my brain kicks in, I smacked myself on the forehead. “I’m sorry Will.” Alaska pulled my hand down  before I could do it again.

Willam sighed and grimaced. “No I’m sorry Kitty Kat, it’s not your fault. I fell when the bus turned about half an hour ago. I’ll be ok soon as…well soon.”

It was cute that he didn’t want to bring up meds but I felt pretty damn strong today. The euphoria that Vi was beating their cancer was all the drug I needed. “Well, I hope your meds kick in soon!” I said with a little grin as Alaska pulled me down beside him.

“Stay out of trouble you!” He whispered in my ear, sending a delicious trail of goosebumps up and down my spine.

40 minutes later, Willam was sitting semi-comfortably, propped up between B and Alaska. It was almost like a palpable sigh of relief went through the bus and everyone relaxed knowing that Will was feeling a bit better. Or at least “better” in the terms of being able to feign that he was doing ok.

That is sometimes the name of the game with any pain, whether physical or emotional, that you fake it til you make it so that only the people that know you the best might see your struggle. There was something that felt inherently shameful in admitting pain in today’s society and I really wish it wasn’t that way. It would be so much easier for people to get help if there wasn’t all this bullshit about being brave and strong. Even though my critical-thinking brain know this to be so, my anxious heart made it easy to forget and submit to this particular societal norm.

“Hey everyone, there is a rest stop with a decent diner attached up ahead about 45 minutes up the road if I remember correctly. Do you want to stop and grab a bite?” Alex yelled back to us. Everyone said some variation of yes and Alex’ voice called out once more, “ok sounds good. No one wants a bus of hungry drag queens!”

We all laughed and talked about bullshit and roared at Phi Phi’s impersonations of Alaska, Sharon and Dela.

Fame seemed withdrawn but every time she noticed me looking at her, she would paste on a fake smile that never reached her eyes. Benny stirred in my brain but before he could get a good run going, I was able to shut him down. I resolutely promised to keep an eye on her.

The diner we stopped at was old but clean, the lady that came around the corner seemed overjoyed at the prospect of a group of customers rather than the sporadic few that peppered the small tables throughout the restaurant. We pushed a bunch of tables together and I cursed internally when Fame happened to be on the opposite end of the table, I was hoping I could sit beside her and ask her how she was quietly. I knew she wasn’t ok, I think she knew I knew too.

We all ordered our food and received huge helpings. Sitting in the diner with all the scents of food cooking made my stomach rumble so loud that 4 or 5 of the queens at our end of the table looked up at me. My steak came and I was too consumed with trying to gobble up the perfectly cooked steak and buttery mashed potatoes that I forgot to see how Fame was doing. When I looked up, she was gone. A plate of salad and a small half filled bowl of soup left in her wake. Maybe she went to the bathroom? I continued stuffing my face ravenously and when I looked up when I had conquered the steak and ate every juicy mouthful, her seat was still empty and her food untouched.

I whispered, “I’ll be right back.” into Alaska’s ear and then headed for the other end of the table.

I crouched down beside B who was at the end of the table and mumbled in a low voice, “hey B, have you seen Fame?”

“Yeah, she went back to the bus I think. Said she wasn’t feeling well. I’m sorry, I didn’t even see her go.”

“Ok thanks.”

I stood to get up and he put a hand on my arm. “Are you sure she doesn’t want time alone Kat? Maybe she needs a minute. I’ll get her food boxed up and order her some dessert to go. Obviously you are going to do what you want because you are a stubborn ass so it’s just a suggestion.” He said with a grin as he released me.

“Apple pie.”

“What?” B asked, looking confused.

“Order Fame some apple pie or apple crisp, it’s her favourite.” I said with a little wink as I sauntered back down the table.

Alaska looked at me questioningly but I just gave her an almost imperceptible shake of my head and it was like I could see her muscles relax in relief. My highstrung-ness was wearing off on her I think. Not that Alaska was that relaxed of a person most of the time herself. Maybe I made it worse for her, she seemed to always be putting out the sweeping forest fires of rampant thought in my brain that I sometimes thought would consume me alive.

I was too full for dessert but I grabbed a piece of turtle cheesecake for later, carving “Katya” into the styrofoam top of the container in cursive with my thumbnail and then printing “eat this and die!!!” at the bottom for good measure. B had 3 containers of food for Fame. I grabbed the bill for Alaska, Fame and I and we all waddled out to the bus all smiling and moaning about how full we were.

Alaska and I were at the very end of the line and we were almost inside the bus when a distraught Jinkxy came out from the back of the bus.

“I can’t find Fame. She’s not here!” Jinkx said throwing her hands in the air, sitting down and bursting into tears.

“Hey…um…ok. Let’s search for her. She can’t be far. Jinkxy, you and Will stay here in case she comes back. Ok…um B and Pearl you go to the gas station there and see if she went in there. If they have a washroom, check there too.” I commanded, pointing at the little gas station and convenience store at the other end of the overly large parking lot. Panic was slowly rising in my throat but I squelched it down, now is not the time to fall apart and need someone to put me back together again. I don’t know if I had a bad feeling about this or if Benny was just being an asshole again. She wasn’t acting like herself which was totally understandable with all that has happened lately, I didn’t voice my concerns aloud at the moment. “Pheef and Sharon, you go to the right of the restaurant and around the outskirts of the restaurant and ‘Lasky and I will go along the other side and we will meet you at the back.  At least one of each pair, take your cellphone and text if you find her.”

“What do you want me to do Katya? I want to help too!” Alex interjected, wringing his cap in his hands and looking like a Dad whose daughter was out waaay past curfew on Prom night.

I hadn’t thought of a job for Alex. “Hmm, oh! Why don’t you go into the restaurant. Maybe she was in the restroom this whole time? Maybe she is sick or the door is locked or something!”

“Got it!”

“Ok everyone got it?” No one joked about me channeling my inner B or anything, they just nodded somberly then we all scattered like beads on a broken necklace.

We HAVE to find her, my gut told me and I hated the sense of urgency I felt in my heart.

[notthetoothfairy]

He’s Got You High

For @a-simple-rainbow. ♥♥♥

She wanted something based on this post: Kurt sends an email to his TA while high on pain meds after a wisdom teeth extraction.

read on AO3

Blaine is in the middle of his theatre history class when his phone signals a new email in his inbox. Discreetly hiding the phone from his instructor’s view by keeping his hands behind a stack of textbooks on his desk, he goes to his email folder and checks the sender.

It reads, Kurt Hummel.

He has to bite his tongue to stop the smile forming on his lips. Kurt is a sophomore, only a year behind Blaine, and takes improv and stage combat class with Blaine. He’s also a student in one of Mme Tibideaux’s more advanced voice studio classes that Blaine miraculously got to be the TA for this year.

To say that Kurt is Blaine’s favorite student would be an understatement – in fact, hopelessly crushing on him is probably more accurate.

It’s not like Blaine is planning to do anything about it, at least not while he’s Kurt’s TA. It would be inappropriate, unprofessional, and probably also really awkward, especially if Kurt isn’t interested.

So, he’s not fooling himself into thinking that Kurt’s email will be anything out of the ordinary. Probably a note of absence or questions about the final exam… though, as Blaine notices with a frown, the subject reads “Paper Eggstension”. Autocorrect maybe? There’s no way Kurt’s spelling is that bad, Blaine has read and graded most of his MUS105 papers.

Glancing at the teacher to ensure he’s still unobserved, Blaine opens the email, intrigued and a bit concerned now. He scans the first few lines and – oh, wow.

Everyone at NYADA knows Kurt is full of surprises and he’s certainly made an impression on Blaine more than once but this…? This has Blaine blushing, giggling under his breath, shaking his head fondly and wanting to check up on Kurt all at once.

To: Blaine Anderson

From: Kurt Hummel

Subject: Paper Eggstension

---

Dear Mr. Blaine,

sry, I forgot your last name because Rachel calls you Mr. Dreamboat! And y would I use your last name anyway? You told us to call you Blaine. Thats a nice name. Blaiiiine.

You said other stuff too. Like that we could send you our MUS105 paper before we send it to Mme Tibidibideaux (I wish she let us call her Blaine too) but only if we dont miss the deadline. Now I gotta tell you: No can-do. But I have an excuse!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I know you don’t believe. But you should. Cuz Blaine, u see – I got my teeth removed. The smarty ones. The wisdom teat. Anyway. I got them out. It was brutality. So much pain, worse than when I watched you unfairly lose Midmight Madnesssss against that senior douche, whatever the fuck his name is again. You should have won Blaine. You were better. I think Rachel bribe the judge bc she went out with senior douche… what is hid name? Bobby? Barney?

But PLEASE could I get a few more days, could you ask Mme T.…??? I really wanna do well bc… you see, Mme T., she scares the hell out of me. Ha that rhymes, triple! Cuz I’m awesome. Yes, I am. You can just accept that as fact or you can also go out wih me and see how awesome I am for yourself, your choice (but pick the latter!). But anyway please please pls pls pls can I hand it the paper a bit later? I really cant submit something bad -- and Im afraid they pulled out my brain with the teeth!!!!!!!! I can’t write a well paper without a brain!

My doctor says Ill regret writing emails while Im hai (thats German for shark, funny fact) so I’m gonna stop and hope that you will say yes! Please bro? Oh! Brody. Brodouche. Midnight Madman. Destroy him next time! (He broke up with Rach, he deserves it.)

Thank you, Mr. Blaineboat. I really like you.

Kurt xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Blaine reads the email three times before deciding that he should wait until after class to type out a response. In the state he’s in right now, he’ll probably do something stupid and just write back, Yes to all.

He wants to, of course. He’d give Kurt an extension on his paper and say yes to a date with him in a heartbeat but… he knows he’ll have to convince Mme Tibideaux, sort out his personal TA-student dating policy (and maybe ask around if NYADA has an official take on it) and make sure Kurt really meant to type this and didn’t just do so in the spur of the painkiller-induced moment.

The class can’t end fast enough but as soon as it’s over and Blaine finds a quiet corner in the library to think of what to respond, he blanks, drafting several replies but ending up deleting all of them.

“Goddammit,” he mutters to himself. “Just write something.”

In the end, “something” doesn’t really compare to Shakespeare but Blaine figures that at least he won’t risk his job over it, either.

And maybe, just maybe, Kurt will catch the ambiguity in his words.

-

“What are you working on?” Rachel asks when she comes back to the loft, arms full of grocery bags that Kurt hopes are filled with veggies for him to make soup with. He seriously craves eating something that isn’t liquid but mushy veggies drowning in hot water really is the maximum of cheating when it comes to his pained cheeks. He knew it was a bad idea to get both upper wisdom teeth out the same day. But it’s too late to complain. At least he has a best friend who brings him soup.

Kurt sighs at the laptop in front of him.

“My paper for Mme Tibideaux,” he responds. “You know I love Sondheim but interpreting his work while physically injured makes me want to kill him.”

“He’s in his mid-eighties, Kurt,” Rachel tells him. “Let an old man be.”

“Ugh.” Kurt rubs his eyes. “The meds are making me tired, though.”

“Why do you even bother writing the paper when you got an extension from Mr. Dreamboat?”

Kurt frowns at Rachel. “Extension? When would I have gotten that?”

“In your email?” Rachel frowns back. “Come on, don’t tell me you chickened out just because you’re in love with him. He’s still our TA, he could probably do something about that deadline, so-”

“I don’t remember writing an email.” Kurt goes to student email and punches in his username and password. “Or getting one back, for that matter. Like, wouldn’t I rem-” He blinks in surprise, catching Blaine’s name in his inbox – twice, even. How high was he, exactly? “Wait, what did I…?” Clicking on the email, bits and pieces come back to him, and he suddenly grabs the couch cushion next to him, holding onto it for dear life. “Oh my god, no.”

“What?”

“Rachel.” Kurt feels the blood draining from his face. “Oh, Jesus, please tell me I didn’t write that…”

He scrolls through the quoted email below Blaine’s short responses (Dear Kurt, thank you for telling me! And yes, of course! I’ll talk to Mme Tibideaux, and get back to you once I know more. Get well soon! All the best, Blaine, and the more recent Dear Kurt, I got a yes from Mme Tibideaux, you’re getting one more week! Best, Blaine) and cringes when he reads the first line.

“I did. Fuuuuuck. Oh god, now I wish Sondheim could kill me.”

“Again, the guy’s, like, 85…” Rachel says slowly. “And why would you- whoa, is that your email to Blaine?”

Kurt doesn’t answer, instead opting to hide his face in his hands.

“You did not tell him we call him Mr. Dreamboat.”

Kurt whimpers.

“You did not ask him out!” Rachel squeals.

Kurt lets out a miserable whine.

“Oh my god, Kurt, you did not tell him you like him and signed the email with a dozen kissing faces!!!”

“WHAT?!” Kurt’s hands fly back to his laptop. He didn’t re-read that part. “Oh my god! I ju- Rachel, I can never go back to that school. I’m such a failure at life, Jesus Christ.”

“You’re very religious all of a sudden.”

“Don’t just sit there mocking me,” Kurt begs. “Tell me it was all just a bad dream.”

Rachel gives him a look of deep, genuine pity. “I really wish I could but I doubt my eyes can never unsee that email. Also, I know you wrote that while you were high on pain meds but I am a bit upset you never told me you didn’t like Brody. Might have saved me some trouble.”

Kurt rolls his eyes at her. “You honestly believe I never brought it up? What do you think we were we having that flea-market chair argument for? And don’t even pretend like you would have called it off with him just because I said something.” Rachel opens her mouth to speak but Kurt shakes his head violently. “It doesn’t matter, anyway – what am I going to do about this?!”

Rachel shrugs. “Kurt, it’s out there. All you can do now is roll with it.”

“In my grave, you mean?”

“In class. To which we’re going tomorrow since you’re so much better already,” Rachel tells him sternly. “Judging by Mr. Dreamb-”

“We can’t call him that anymore,” Kurt says quickly.

“Fine.” She sighs. “Judging by Blaine’s reply, he’s not bothered by it. Who knows, maybe he’s flattered. Or happy about it. It’s not every day you get an email from a cute guy confessing he’s crushing on you.”

“Yeah, right,” Kurt mumbles into the sleeve of his sweater. “As if I stand a chance with him.”

“No time like the present to find out,” Rachel says with finality. “Now, I’m making you soup, and you’re going to put on some Sondheim so you can work on your paper with some fresh insights and maximum concentration.”

It’s a nice thought – but Kurt doesn’t get anything done that night.

-

Blaine carefully keeps his eyes on his notebook when Rachel and Kurt walk into his class.

He was expecting Kurt to come back today (and no, he did not google how long it takes for people to recover from wisdom teeth extraction – he just asked Sam, who had gotten it done right before moving to New York), and he might have put a little extra effort into looking good today. He never got a response from Kurt, so he figures the guy has either silently acknowledged the paper extension, avoided Blaine for a number of possible reasons or forgotten about the exchange entirely.

Whatever the motivation behind it, Blaine will not despair over it. He’s Kurt’s TA, and as such won’t try anything anyway. NYADA doesn’t seem to have any policy against TAs dating students but nevertheless, he doesn’t want to put either them in an awkward position.

Which doesn’t even take into account the fact that he still doesn’t know whether Kurt remembers asking him out, whether he actually meant it, or whether he intends to ask again.

He might want to wait until Blaine’s no longer his TA as well. That’s alright with Blaine. After all, there’s a month left to this semester, so he can wait. He totally can.

He looks up from his notebook with a smile.

“Hi everyone,” he greets the class. “How are you doing? So, the deadline for your papers is Friday so I hope you’ve all sent me your drafts in case you want me to read them.” He can’t help but let his eyes wander to where Kurt is sitting. “Unless there were any reasons to hand them in late.”

Kurt blinks really quickly at the sudden eye contact, and lets out a nervous laugh.

And Blaine realizes he really totally cannot wait a whole month to get answers to his questions.

Before he can stop himself, he adds, “Everyone with extensions on their papers, please come see me after class.”

Of course, that’s just Kurt, but the class won’t know. Okay, Rachel might know, seeing as she elbows Kurt so hard it almost sends him flying off his seat. Kurt almost doesn’t seem to notice it as he’s busy staring at Blaine with a bit of a twitch in his eye.

Blaine suppresses a groan. This isn’t the plan. What is he doing?

-

“Blaine, I am so sorry!” Kurt exclaims in misery when the rest of the students slip away after class is over.

He’s beyond glad that Blaine didn’t make him sing any of his pieces today because apart from already being nervous whenever Blaine does ask him to do that, today his anxiety probably would have been the final straw. He might have run off or broken out into tears in front of everyone.

Blaine looks at him with a small smile. “You’ve got nothing to apologize.”

“Uh, yes, I do,” Kurt says stubbornly. He’s beyond mortified; the least Blaine can do is let him apologize properly. “I really didn’t mean to-”

“Oh.” Blaine looks down on the pile of sheet music he was stacking. “Yeah, right. Uhm, seriously though, I know how bad pain killers can be, I don’t blame you for-”

“Oh thank god, you know it was the pain meds,” Kurt breathes out in relief. “I was afraid you’d think-”

“No worries,” Blaine cuts him off. “It’s alright if you didn’t mean any of it.”

Kurt hesitates for a second, and gulps as he takes in Blaine’s slightly shaky hand movement as he stuffs the sheet music into his messenger bag.

“If…?” he asks quietly.

“I mean that,” Blaine says, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Sorry, that, of course.”

Kurt’s at a loss. He’s getting mixed signals, and just judging by the last bit of the exchange – if that was the only thing that had happened, his stupid email and the fact that Blaine is his freaking TA forgotten – he might even be encouraged to inquire further.

But he can’t just admit to meaning all of it, right?

He settles for the safer topic. “So you wanted to speak to me about my paper?” he asks.

“Uh, yes.” Blaine smiles, though he still looks distracted. “I just wanted to ask you whether you had any questions about the material since you couldn’t join us for the last two sessions.”

“I…” Kurt shakes his head. “No, I think I’ve got it covered. Rachel caught me up.”

“Alright. Well, if you have any questions, you can send me an email.”

“Or not,” Kurt says quickly. “I think I’m swearing off emails for a while.”

Blaine laughs, the sound warm and pleasant in Kurt’s ear.

“Right,” he says. “I know this is a bit awkward but… it could have been worse. You could have written that to Mme Tibideaux or Miss July.”

Kurt is so relieved that Blaine is able to joke about it that he replies with a mindless, “Yeah, except I wouldn’t have told them I liked them, so…”

Blaine gapes at him, and Kurt realizes a second to late what he’s implying yet again.

“Oh,” Blaine says. “I, uh-”

“I’ve got to go,” Kurt cuts in, ears burning. “Can I go?”

“Uh, uhm, well, yeah, of course,” Blaine stutters.

As Kurt turns around and gathers his stuff, he can hear Blaine mutter something to himself. Kurt’s almost out the door, when Blaine calls out, “Kurt?”

Kurt turns around gingerly. “Yeah?”

“I really didn’t mind.”

“Okay...”

“Like, really really.”

Kurt wants to scream, But what does that mean?! Instead, he takes a deep breath, collects his thoughts, and says, “Okay… see you in improv, I guess?”

Blaine nods quickly. “Yeah. Later, Kurt.”

“Later, Blaine.”

-

Blaine is early to improv class, even though it’s all the way across campus. But he didn’t stop for his usual coffee, grabbed a salad to-go instead of lunch with his friends from his dorm, and also maybe, possibly hurried to get to class because Kurt is usually early to everything.

Blaine is the first to arrive, though, so he grabs his usual seat and gets out his salad. He’s about to slice the egg when he hears Kurt’s voice from outside the classroom.

“Talk to you later, Rachel.”

“Okay. And, Kurt, remember to ask-”

“Bye now!”

As soon as Kurt’s through the door, his eyes land on Blaine and he freezes.

“Uh, hi,” he says. His cheeks are slightly red, probably from the cold weather outside. “You’re – uhm, early.”

“Yeah.” Blaine looks down briefly, willing himself to just go for it this time. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Again?” Kurt bites his lip. “I thought-”

“Kurt, when I said yes in the email, I meant yes to both.”

“Both?” Kurt frowns. “I don’t-”

“Both questions. Or requests, I guess.”

Kurt’s eyes widen. “You mean…”

“Yeah, I mean,” Blaine says with as much conviction as possible. “At first, I didn’t want to say anything because, you know, TA and all, but… seeing you in class, knowing, or well, hoping that you meant it, and… I don’t know, I couldn’t wait those four weeks until the semester is over. So I asked you to stay after class but then that felt super shady, too, so… I don’t even really know what I’m doing right now.”

“Do you know what you’re saying, though?” Kurt asks breathlessly.

“Well…” Blaine can’t suppress a grin. “Unlike some people, I’m not on pain meds right now, so, yeah, I’m pretty sure I have full control over my words.”

Kurt glares at him but it’s mostly façade, especially considering he’s still looking like Christmas came a bit early this year, and Blaine… well, Blaine is floored at the thought of being the one to actually make him look like that.

“Well, apparently those pain meds at least made me confess something neither of us could admit to sober, so…”

“Hey, for the record,” Blaine says, getting up to stand in front of Kurt, “I fully intended to ask you out once the semester was over.”

Kurt’s eyes are locked on Blaine with sheer intensity, and Blaine isn’t proud to admit it makes his knees a bit weak.

“Really?” Kurt asks, clearly intrigued, then sighs. “So my email was completely unnecessary.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Blaine says. “I got so many laughs out of it.”

“Oh god, shut up.”

“No, I mean, it – eggstension?” Blaine chuckles. “Wisdom teat? There were some good ones there.”

“What part of shut up-”

Waiting really isn’t Blaine’s strong suit, he realizes, as he leans in to kiss Kurt, four weeks too early to be completely professional, yet about half a year too late considering how long he’s had his eye on him.

Kurt’s protest is muffled against Blaine’s lips, and dies down completely once they press closer together to get better access. They part for air briefly, and Kurt whispers, “When I got up this morning, I would have sworn this would be the last thing I’d ever say, but I’m pretty proud of myself for writing that email now.”

Blaine licks his bottom lip, chasing the faint taste of Kurt there. “I’m glad you wrote it, too.” This whole thing between them has lasted about a minute but he wants more so badly he feels like he’s physically incapable from drawing Kurt back in and kissing him again.

They keep at it until other students start to trickle into the room, and even then they share meaningful glances and press their ankles together between their chairs.

Between all the talking and kissing, Blaine didn’t get to eat his salad, so about halfway through the lecture, his stomach starts growling.

Kurt turns to him with a grin. “Forgot to eat?”

“I guess I was distracted.”

“Hm, by what, I wonder?” Kurt asks cheekily.

Blaine eyes his untouched salad in amusement. “I guess I got pretty egg-sited over this boy I like.”

It’s totally worth all the frustrated elbowing he gets in response.