#lemme know if u need smth adjusted :

[vtriol]

in the aftermath of the past few weeks, thana feels a distinct lack of energy. they adhere to their routine well enough, clocking in at the MOFA when needed and going home early when not. it's clear that the others know, and think space is what's best for them. thana isn't sure what's best for them.

when they see @shnya on the cafeteria balcony, smoking like usual, they almost call his first name like old times. something gives them pause, so they quietly lean against the railing for a moment. “ ... so what's it like? outside of japan? ”

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Could you write about stan or Ford taking care of their sick s/o? I've been suffering from an awful head cold this past week and it sucks i could really use the comfort 😭

sick days with Stan & Ford (x reader)

a/n: starting with smth sfw while i work on… other things hehehhe but I hope you’ll feel better! take your meds and let yourself rest ���� and thank u for the ask, anon!!

Stanford Pines

the kind of man who fights interdimensional monsters but still worries if your tea is the right temperature.

he tucks you onto the couch, fussing over pillows and blankets until you’re buried like some kind of marshmallow. then he disappears into the kitchen, where you can hear pots clanging and. . . is that the blender?

when he returns, he’s holding a tray with a bowl of soup, a glass of water, and a strange concoction that’s vaguely green.

“head cold or not, you need fluids. hydration is important,” he says, setting a mug of something herbal-smelling on the coffee table. “this tea is from the forests of dimension 52. the locals swear by it for respiratory ailments.”

you squint at the mug. “it’s not gonna. . . mutate me, right?”

Ford pauses, adjusting his glasses. “probably not.”

“Ford!”

he chuckles, sitting beside you with a soft sigh. “it’s perfectly safe, i’ve tested it. besides, you trust me, don’t you?”

and of course you do, even when his idea of “helping” involves interdimensional remedies that could very well grow you a third arm.

you take a tentative sip. the taste is weird, but soothing, warming you from the inside out.

“good?” he asks, watching your face expression.

“yeah,” you admit, sinking deeper into the blanket. “not bad.”

satisfied or at least faking this, he leans back, but that little crinkle in his brow never really goes away.

“you’re overthinking again,” you notice, looking at him.

“i am not,” he says, entirely unconvincing.

“Ford.”

he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “i just hate seeing you like this, i keep thinking there must be something more i can do.”

you reach out, tangling your fingers with his. “you’re doing enough, really, just stay with me, okay?”

Ford’s expression softens and he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“always.” and he stays, reading to you from one of his journals while you drift in and out of sleep. his voice is calm, comforting and every so often, he pauses to carefully check your temperature.

Stan Pines

you wake up with your throat feeling like sandpaper and your head pounding. you barely have the energy to groan, let alone drag yourself out of bed, but the world outside your room is loud. voices from the tv, Stan’s yelling at it.

with blanket wrapped around your shoulders, you stumble out and see Stan sprawled on the armchair in his striped boxers and tank top, he’s shoving popcorn into his mouth by the handful, but when he sees you, he nearly chokes on it.

“jeez, you look like somethin’ the cat dragged in. worse than waddles after he found that mud pit last week.”

you sniffle. “thanks for the pep talk, Stan.”

he waves you over as his tone softens. “c’mon, c’mere. what’s wrong? flu? cold? bubonic plague? don’t tell me you’re contagious.”

you plop next to him, dropping your head onto his shoulder. the tv’s too loud, but you can’t even complain about it.

“it’s just a cold,” you murmur. 

“cold, huh? well, that’s nothing to mess with,” you can hear the tease in his voice. “lemme get my doctor bag. got some snake oil in there that cures everything, even bad attitudes.”

he shuffles off to the kitchen, muttering about needing to find some ginger ale. he comes back with a mug of tea that looks. . . questionable. is that a bay leaf? and a handful of mints?

“drink this, kid, don’t ask questions.”

you sip and it’s awful. Stan grins as you make grimace. “told ya it’s magic. now, get cozy.”

he turns the tv down and drapes his old, scratchy afghan over you. you don’t know when it happens, maybe during some ridiculous commercial for glow-in-the-dark socks, but you fall asleep with your head still on his shoulder.

when you wake up, the tea’s gone, replaced by a cup of melted ice cream with a sticky spoon, meanwhile Stan is snoring loudly with his arm protectively thrown over you.