#maybe flu shot yesterday

[fantasy-costco]

Y'all get heightened skin sensitivity when your sick or am I the weird one here

[raeathnos]

.

[ssahotchnerr]

👉🏼👈🏼 is it ok to request a fic where jack starts trying to take care of the reader the way he sees his dad does? like maybe hotch is away from a case and reader gets sick or sad or idk, so jack takes it upon himself to be there for reader? like maybe he even starts referring reader with the same pet name hotch calls her? tysm!

like dad does

aw 🥹 cw; fem!reader, established relationship, mentions of sickness, fluff <3

you awoke with a gentle start; a trail of cold water trickling down the side of your face, pooling vaguely in your ear.

likewise, a more concrete sensation was set on your forehead - a cold compress. most likely a washcloth, and one that hadn't been wrung out too much at that.

but it was relieving, a delightful contrast from your burning forehead.

"oops," a small mumble came directly from your left ear, as well as a soft exhale of a breath. "sorry."

"jack?" you muttered, rather drowsily. you forced your eyes open, finding jack's sweet, concerned face beside you. "what're you doing?"

"i'm taking care of you." he explained softly, his tone so nonchalant as if it were the most obvious and simplest thing in the world. he reached forward, adjusting the top of the blanket that was draped overtop you. "like dad does. he put the washcloth on you yesterday, you 'member?"

he was right; you were on day two, maybe three? of a nasty bout of the flu. quite honestly you didn't know what day it was, they all blurred together, and your scattered sleep schedule didn't help. you offered him a nod.

"thank you." you gave him a small, closed mouth smile. if it weren't for the germs, you'd reach out to touch his cheek. you sat up a bit from your position in bed, your voice hoarse. "where is your dad?"

"a meeting."

your eyebrows furrowed, the facial movement burning your sinuses. "he's home?"

jack nodded, "he's in his office, but he said it might take a long time. so that's why i'm helping you feel better."

his face brightened a bit, as if a realization struck him. he reached into his pant's pocket, retrieving a few cough drops he had shoved in there, dropping them onto your blanket covered chest.

"i'm sorry i can't make you soup." jack apologized, solemnly as his shoulders dropped. "but i'm not allowed to use the stove."

your face softened, the weak smile resurfacing. "that's okay bud, don't worry. you can help dad make some later when he's done, how 'bout that?"

he nodded enthusiastically, before hoisting himself onto your bed.

"hey no no no, i wouldn't," you protested gently, your heart also melting at his action. "i don't want you getting my germs."

"if i get sick i get sick." that's the same thing aaron had said, multiple times, when he insisted on getting into bed with you earlier. jack scooted somewhat close, staying mainly on his father's side of the bed.

"and if i get sick, i don't need to go to school."

you laughed softly, but finding yourself too weak to argue, you did the only thing you could - go right back to sleep.

it was restless; you were in and out of slumber, and could roughly process jack getting up here and there - solely due to the distant sensation of the washcloth leaving and returning to your forehead, dampened once more.

and once aaron's meeting had ceased, he went in to check on you, and was pleasantly surprised, and touched, to see jack accompanying you.

you were out, with jack diligently watching over, while also keeping himself busy - his sketchbook and colored pencils were scattered amongst the bed.

"how's it going?" aaron asked him from the doorway, the door producing a sharp creak as he pushed it forward a tad.

"good. i brought cough drops, the washcloth, and made sure she got lots of rest. just like you did." jack continued to draw as he spoke, before his head shot right up. "can we make soup?"

"sure buddy," aaron nodded, a tinge of pride pulling at his heart. he tilted his head towards the hallway, and jack immediately scrambled off the bed. "c'mon."

[not-actually-human]

hrghhhhhh

[m0llygunn]

deathbed confessions (eddie munson x fem!reader one-shot)

summary: cold and flu season hits you hard but luckily you have your best friend eddie to take care of you. If the cold medicine makes you admit a few things... eddie sure isn't complaining.

contents: 18+, best friends to lovers, r is dramatically sick with a cold (talks about dying but it's just drama), fluff idk a/n: guys i am so sick help me i had to lay on the bathroom floor after braving a shower because i thought i was gonna die (but also i wrote this so maybe im ok) wc: 4.4k+

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Holy shit, did Halloween come early?” Eddie snickers from the door of your room.

All you can muster up is a low groan and that alone makes you feel like your head is on the brink of explosion. 

“Jesus, you’re really sick, huh?” he says with the huff of a laugh.

You answer with another groan. Yes. You are 'really sick'.

“Can I do something to help?” he replies, the first hint of empathy appearing in his voice.

“Put me out—” you interrupt yourself with a sniffle followed by a phlegmy cough. “—out of my misery.”

You were supposed to be seeing some double feature with Eddie tonight but yesterday, right before bed, you felt the slightest of tickles in your throat. By morning you were the living dead with everything from your big toe to your forehead aching in one way or another. You called Eddie and before you could even mention that you were sick, he knew from your stuffed up voice. 

No matter how many times you told him you’d be fine he was strangely insistent in checking on you at the very least. By the end of the call he’d quickly worn you down and you told him that he has the spare key and he can do whatever he wants but if he gets sick that's his fault— a little mean but arguing was the last thing you felt like doing.

From the time you hung up to now— which has only been a handful of hours, you’ve gotten substantially worse. Earth shatteringly worse. So terribly worse that the simple task of opening your eyes has been too much effort. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire, and your lungs are just begging for salvation. That’s why when Eddie called twenty minutes ago letting you know he was on his way you told him no. It would have been wise if he listened to you but instead he replied ‘too bad’ and abruptly hung up the phone. 

Cut to twenty minutes later he was at your door, letting himself in. He was willingly walking into his very own death sentence. He clearly thought it was more of a joke than anything.

You hear Eddie’s tell-tale gait as he walks further into your room. You assume that he’s standing over your bed, maybe a hand on the back of his neck, maybe a hand on his hip. Mustering the efforts to confirm your suspicions would take too much of your very limited energy so you continuing laying in your bed, not doing as much as opening an eye.

You hear the ruffle of his hair and he definitely is rubbing the back of his neck as he gauges what to do. 

“So…do you want, like, medicine then?” he asks. 

“A gun,” you croak, earning a deep belly laugh from Eddie.

“At least your humour’s still intact, that’s good to know,” he says, sitting down on the edge of your bed.

You try to shuffle over to make room for him, but that effort alone makes you wince.

“Call an ambulance,” you whine, sniffling pathetically. 

“Really?” he asks, a genuine nervousness creeping into his voice. You feel his hand tug at the blanket you’ve cocooned yourself in, revealing your face for him to see. If you were more cognizant maybe you’d care about Eddie seeing you like this, but you’re too far gone to think about that. 

“No,” you answer, nodding your head up and down in contrast to your answer, earning a huff of relief from Eddie. 

The blanket slackens from his pull and the bed dips deeper as he leans in further to get a better look at you. Once again, if you were more cognizant you’d probably rather he didn’t, but you wouldn’t have the will to fight it anyways.

“Did you take anything?” he asks. 

“It’s been a few hours.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yeah, whipped up a quick 4 course meal earlier, michelin approved of course,” you mumble. You contemplate cracking an eye open to see his reaction but you don’t. 

“Right, so no food.” 

“No, surprisingly not that hungry when you’re on your deathbed,” you say, sniffling.

“Tell me you’ve at least had water,” he says and from his tone you know that he already knows the answer. 

“I had water until the bottle was empty, then I decided I’d rather succumb to death than get out of bed,”

“Funny, funny girl,” he says dryly, obviously not impressed by your answers. 

“Tombstone quote,” you say weakly, hoping that Eddie gets what you mean. He laughs softly and you consider that enough of a success. 

You hear the slightest bit of shuffling, not Eddie getting up but more like he’s looking around your room. Whatever state it’s in, you couldn’t even work up the courage to care. 

“Do you want a movie on or something?” he asks, breaking the lull in conversation. 

“Would you do that?” you ask, tilting your face towards him despite not opening your eyes. 

“Oh yeah. I’m giving you the mortally ill special— the deathbed works, if you will,” he says, and you can tell he’s smiling. You do your best to smile back but it’s weak and probably looks more like a grimace. 

You feel shuffling before the bed rises from Eddie standing.

“Okay, so I’m gonna get you medicine first. Then movie, food, and whatever else, deal?”

Your lower lip pouts out appreciatively for the boy you’ve called your best friend for forever now. If you weren’t deathly ill, you’d kiss him.

“Thank you, Eddie,” you whisper, voice getting caught in your throat for an entirely different reason than your cold this time. 

He mumbles back some version of ‘don’t worry about it’ before he’s off, leaving you in the quiet of your room with only your breathing, coughing, and sniffling breaking the silence. It’s barely a few minutes before you hear his footsteps and the edge of your bed dips again. 

“This is what you took right? The cold and flu medicine?”

“Mhm” you hum.

“You have nasal congestion?”

You sniffle loudly and nod.

“Right. Nasal pain, sinus congestion, and sinus pain?”

You hum again, catching onto the fact that he’s reading the symptoms off of the box. 

“Chest congestion?”

Weakly you swat your hand out trying to find Eddie. When you do, you give him the weakest of taps. “Too many questions,” you muster. 

“Well, I know you’re joking about dying but I don’t want to actually kill you,” he says. You hum again.

You hear him fumbling with the cardboard before fumbling with the plastic pill packaging.

“Do you wanna sit up?” he asks.

“I want to die,”

“Well you can’t do that so I’m gonna help you sit up, okay?”

Eddie starts tugging at the blanket and you let your weakened limbs go limp, undoubtedly making the task much harder for him but he doesn’t say anything. Eventually, he pulls you up by your underarms, propping you up against your headboard. 

When you feel his cool hands on your forehead, pushing your hair back and out of your face, you open your eyes for the first time since Eddie got here. 

“There she is,” he laughs lightly, still pushing back the disheveled mess that is your hair.

“Your hands feel nice,” you whisper, focusing on the coolness on your skin. Before you have a chance to really absorb the relief of his hands on your skin, he pulls away, grabbing for the water he had set down on your bedside table. 

“Yeah, you’re really hot,” he replies, passing the water to you.

“Tombstone quote,” you say, catching his eye, making him laugh again. With a shaky hand, you take the water.

“Funny and hot, that’s a killer deal.” He hands you the little cold and flu pill and you place it in your mouth, swallowing it down with small sips of the cold water that feels like ice going down your throat. 

You redirect your gaze to Eddie, “you’re gonna get sick, that’s the real killer here,” you say. 

“I’ll be fine,”

“You don’t want this cold, trust me,” you say, taking another sip of water before holding it out to Eddie. 

“I’ll be fine,” he repeats as he takes the water, putting it back on your bedside table. 

You nod. You appreciate Eddie’s help more than anything. Fending for yourself wasn’t exactly going so well— clearly.

“You had this with your other stuff, do you want it?” he asks, holding up the vicks vapor rub.

When you felt the cold coming on you went to the pharmacy and picked up a few things just in case. The vapor rub was on sale and you bought it on a whim but haven’t tried it yet.

“Do you think it really works?”

“Wayne used to put it on me, I guess it does?”

“Where do you put it?”

“On your chest or back,” he answers, looking at the fine print of the packaging. “Yeah, it says chest, throat, and back.”

You open your mouth to reply but instead feel the creeping up of the tickling in your throat. Turning the other way, you do your best to not cough all over Eddie. Sucking in a deep breath, you only trigger another cough that divulges into one of many coughing attacks that you’ve had today. When you’re finally done, you drop your head to the back of the headboard in defeat. 

“C’mon, let’s try it on your back for now,” he says, putting a hand on your shoulder encouraging you to lean forward. You move how he wants you without protest.

“I’m just gonna lift up your shirt a bit, okay?” he says, you nod but he pauses, fingers just barely slipping under the hem of your shirt.

“Eddie, with the way I’m feeling, you could see me butt ass naked right now and I could not care less,” you say. 

He snorts a laugh before his cool fingers trail up your spine giving you tingles that make you shiver. “Sorry,” he hums but you shake your head. His hand makes contact with your upper back, rubbing the ointment on your skin and it honestly feels incredibly soothing. Whether it’s the rub or the physical contact, you’re not sure, but you’re not questioning it either.

The noise that comes out of you could have been a moan had you not been congested. Instead it comes out like a low, stuffed up groan— not unlike a movie zombie. 

Eddie rubs a few more circles on your back before his hand travels back down your spine. 

“How’s that feel?” he asks, helping you sit back up straight.

“So fucking good and like I need you to rub my back like that again,” you say, resting your head back against the headboard. Maybe you put a little too much conviction in your words but that truly felt amazing.

The room is silent and you blink open your eyes to see Eddie holding the tub of rub in his hands, paused halfway through closing it. It takes a moment for him to look up at you but when he does, he smiles softly.

“What movie do you wanna watch?”

Had you not been distracted by your sickness, you might have noticed the faintness of a blush spreading across the tops of Eddie’s cheeks. Coughing and forcing air back into your lungs takes up every ounce of your consciousness though, so you don’t notice. 

You shrug your shoulder taking a deep breath, “anything, I’ll probably pass out from the medicine anyways,” you reply, turning away again to cough. 

Eddie hums before he’s moving to your dresser opposite your bed, angling the TV for you to see it better. 

“Sixteen Candles, Children of the Corn, Gremlins, Teen Wolf?” he says, listing off the titles of the different tapes you have sprawled next to the vcr. 

“Any.” 

“Gremlins seems kind of relevant,” he says, pulling open the clamshell box.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask. Eddie turns to you, smirk spreading across his lips.

“Nothing,” he sings lightly. He turns away from you, pushing the tape into the player and then pressing the combination of buttons to get it working. 

“You better not be implying that I look like a gremlin because—” you interrupt yourself with another cough that quickly divulges into yet another coughing fit— worse than the last. 

With each cough being so strong it makes your head pound. You don’t notice Eddie crossing your room or him settling back on the edge of your bed. You only notice his presence when he’s encouraging you forward, hand rubbing your back again. 

When your coughing finally calms down enough for you to take a good breath, Eddie brings the glass of water up for you to take a sip. You take the cup in your hands, guiding it to your mouth. At the same time, Eddie never fully lets go of the cup, making sure it doesn’t spill. You take a drink, nodding when you’re done and he sets it back down, hand still running up and down your back. 

“It’s probably just the rub working, getting all that nasty stuff out,” he says softly. 

You nod again, letting your head fall to rest on Eddie’s shoulder. It’s probably not the smartest idea to be so close to him because you're pretty much sentencing him to his demise, but with how terrible you feel you’re desperate for anything to make it better— and right now the only thing making anything better is Eddie. 

“The medicine’ll kick in any minute and you’ll feel much better, okay? I’ll go get you something to eat and then I can rub your back some more. How’s that sound?” he says softly, brushing the edge of your face with his chin as he tilts his face downwards towards yours. 

Your lower lip pouts out again and you feel your eyes water behind your closed lids. Maybe you were already hyper emotional from feeling so sick, but Eddie being so sweet is also doing a number on you.

“Sounds really nice,” you whisper, sucking in a breath.

“You’ll be okay,” Eddie whispers, hand switching from rubbing up and down your back to rubbing circles at the top of your back. “I’ll take care of you, I got you.”

Before the tears in your eyes have a chance to breach your waterline, Eddie’s shifting beside you, leaning you back against the headboard with the promise of being quick while he gets you food. Only once he’s gone and you’re left alone in your room do you notice Gremlins has already started playing. Opening your eyes, you spare a few glances at the screen that distract you from your teary eyed state.

As Eddie promised, he was pretty quick in his return. You could hear him the whole time, kitchen utensils clanking and cupboard doors closing. Maybe all concept of time is lost on you right now, but it seemed like barely any time had passed before he was taking slow, careful steps back towards your room.

“Alright— got that soup you like, got crackers, and got you some juice,” Eddie announces as he situates the dishware on your bedside table. “I even made sure not to warm the soup too much so you can eat it right away,” he says.

Eyes closed again, you don’t know what you expected him to do but him manhandling you took you by surprise. A hand slid behind your back and another under your upper thighs, he was sliding you right over on the mattress.

“Just giving myself some space here,” he says absentmindedly as he fixes your blanket around you. He quickly settles in next to you before grabbing the sleeve of crackers and settling them in front of you and grabbing the bowl of soup.

Sitting with his legs stretched out next to yours, you let your head dip to his shoulder again, this time like a silent thank you where you cozy your head against him, not unlike a cat.

“For the record, you’re more like Gizmo,” he says, a tease intruding in his voice.

“Hm?” you hum questioningly.

“You don’t look like a gremlin, you’re cute like Gizmo,” he says.

You sink your face further into the crook of Eddie's shoulder, lip jetting out once more. He’s done nothing more than call you a cute gremlin rather than an evil gremlin, yet you feel yourself turning misty eyed yet again. This time you squeeze your eyes shut, closing them on purpose, hiding your sickness induced emotions.

“Soups gonna get cold,” Eddie says, twisting his neck to look at you again. “C’mon, it’ll be better for you if you eat it warm,” he says, using his free arm to move you.

Once you’re finally propped up again in an appropriate position to eat, you feel Eddie’s hand on your cheek— no doubt becoming aware of your tears.

“You okay?” he asks softly, thumb rubbing under your cheek.

“You’re being so nice to me,” you explain, sniffling back your need to cry.

“Just taking care of you. Want you to feel better,” he replies, keeping his voice quiet. 

“Thank you, Eddie.”

“You don’t gotta thank me, just gotta eat your soup, okay Gizmo?” Eddie says, making you snort out a snotty laugh before sucking it all back in with an apology that he quickly dismisses. 

You take a few breaths, getting your tears under control. Shifting your focus to the soup, Eddie holds the bowl close to you while you slowly feed yourself spoonful after spoonful. 

“Crackers?” Eddie offers.

“Maybe one.”

“How ‘bout two?” he replies, peeling back the plastic and pulling two out for you. You nod softly before taking them from him. 

You feel yourself running out of energy and it’s exasperating that all it took was lifting a spoon to your lips a measly few times. When you let the crackers sit in your lap for too long, Eddie turns to look at you, resting the bowl of soup down in his lap. 

“Y’okay?” he asks.

“Tired,” you answer. 

“Just finish those and you can be done, okay?” he says, meeting your gaze. You shake your head.

“Can’t,” you reply.

“You can,” he says, turning his torso to put the bowl of soup on the table. He turns back around, reaching for the crackers in your hand. “Know you can,” he repeats, bringing the crackers to your lips.

“Eddie—” you try to protest.

“Bite,” he says, cutting you off and nudging the cracker into your mouth. 

You bite, giving into him. It feels weird being hand fed. It’s probably even weirder when two bites in you close your eyes in an effort to conserve your energy. Regardless, Eddie doesn’t say anything besides positive affirmations about how good you’re doing which you really, really appreciate. 

“How about you drink some of this,” he says, reaching for the glass of juice as you chew the last bite of cracker. “Then I’ll help you lay down and I can rub your back s’more?”

“You don’t have to if you wanna go home, you've been here a long time,” you say, swallowing the dryness of the cracker down. 

Eddie lifts the cup of juice to your lips, tipping it back for you to sip at. When you take more than a few drinks, you lift a hand lightly pushing the cup away. Blinking your eyes open you look at Eddie as he returns the cup to sit with the other dishware on your bedside table. 

“I’m serious, Eddie. You can go home if you want,”

“Don’t want to,”

“You’re gonna be— you interrupt yourself with a yawn this time. “—gonna be so sick,” you say groggily.

“Just let me cuddle you, you know you want it,” he says, a teasing tone hinting in his voice. You blink open your eyes again to see a genuine smile as he looks at you—one that shouldn’t be there considering how gross you feel and are sure you look. Despite that, it’s there and you do want cuddles so you nod softly, making a weak, sad attempt at getting closer to Eddie.

Eddie meets your attempt by gently pulling you down the mattress. He maneuvers you to have your head resting on his chest while his arm snakes around you, rubbing circles on your back. With the sleepiness settling in and your cold symptoms dialing back due to the medicine, you can’t help but hum happily. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says quietly.

It feels beyond good. Good is an understatement. Having him take care of you like this is making you feel mushy and only highlights your feelings for Eddie. In combination with your partially delusionally, sleepy state the only thing on your mind is expressing your feelings, all of them true no matter how far out of it you are at this point. 

“Eddie, if I die, just know that I love you,” you mutter into the fabric of his shirt. 

“That’s just the cold medicine talking,” Eddie laughs softly. You find the energy to shake your head.

“Nuh-uh, love you,” you repeat. “Love you so much.”

It’s faint, maybe he whispered it or maybe it’s the fact that you were slipping into sleep but you heard it. 

“I love you too,” he says quietly. 

As if those words gave you a short lived second life, it had you perking up, desperately needing to clarify just in case he didn’t understand. 

“But Eddie I love you as my best friend but also more than that— I love you so much.”

He leaves you in silence but you don’t have the clear consciousness to overthink it, you just keep talking.

“I don’t even care if you don’t like me like that, I love you Eddie.”

“I love you too. Love you a lot, but I think we should talk about this when you’re not tired and on cold medicine, okay?” he whispers softly. 

As your thoughts start to drift, you focus on the first half of Eddie's sentiment. He loves you— and he loves you a lot. With that on your mind, intermixed with the comforting friction of his hand on your back, you fall into the deepest and most comfortable sleep of your life despite being so sick. Eddie loves you. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Arguably, the best thing that came out of your cold was your confession. It was bound to happen eventually and although it did sort of seem like a deathbed confession at the time, it was genuine— that of which you clarified for Eddie. To your fortune, he also clarified that his reply was true as well. Beyond that, you were still sick and neither of you had done much more than just sharing those little words that one night. So yes, arguably, that's the best thing that came out of your sickly state; however, in your opinion, you think the best thing that happened was that you got Eddie sick too. 

It was less than a day after you started feeling normal again that Eddie was running a fever. He ended up staying at your place for the majority of your sickness but he had left once to get some things for himself. Since he had his stuff here already, you offered for him to stay over at yours while you returned the favor of playing doctor. 

Eddie took on a much different position as a sick person than you did. Undeniably, you both were on the dramatic end of things but while your cynical humour came out during your time being sick, Eddie was much different in how expressed himself.

Normally, a very touchy feely person, his affectionate side heightened tenfold while he was sick. He was all grabby hands, wanting you closer to him. Maybe it was because the two of you had broken the touch barrier while you were sick or maybe Eddie just turned into a touch deprived baby when he was sick, you’ll never know, but you didn’t deny him of the cuddles that you so dearly appreciated while you were under the weather. 

The most interesting part— which shouldn't have came as a surprise, was that not only did he appreciate holding you, but he intensely appreciated you holding him, whether that be hands scratching his head as he rested it on your stomach, or your arms wrapped around him from behind making him the little spoon. Additionally, he was also incredibly affectionate with his words, constantly telling you how grateful he was for you and how much he appreciated you. 

Your favourite confession came late one night, probably at the peak of his sickness. Fairly similar to your deathbed confession, but a moment to remember regardless.

You had just finished helping him eat, similar to how he had done for you, and were cuddling with him, smoothing your hands over his side as he rested his head on your chest. 

The medicine was kicking in, making him drowsy, eyes fluttering shut as he let sleep take him over. He had kept babbling random thoughts but as he got more and more tired he was eventually reduced to heavy breaths. That was, until he titled his face up to yours. You looked down at him, meeting his sleepy eyes.

“I love you,” he said. “Love you so much.”

“Love you too, Eddie,” you replied, smiling.

“But I love you so much,” he said, voice returning to its babbling cadence. “Love you so much I wanna kiss you and love you and—” his babbling started to slowly fade as his head got heavier on your chest. You couldn’t help but laugh softly as your heart swelled.

You smoothed a hand over his face, brushing back his hair as you stared at him with nothing but love for your very, very sick boy. Like you had given him a second wind, his babbling started up again. 

“Wanna marry you. Love you so much wanna marry you,” he said, words slurring.

“Think you’ll have to ask me on a date first, cutie,” you replied quietly, partially under the impression that he was already asleep. 

“I will. Love you so much, I will,” he mumbled and with that, he was out like a light. 

From there, the rest was history. If curious minds were to inquire, you would say that Eddie’s always been very good at keeping his promises, and mindless babbling or not, he meant every word that he confessed in his sickly, drowsy state. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

thank you! <3

[thecowboykatsuki-anon]

There For You

Summary: When Dabi gets sick at your place, he lets a couple of his walls come down, but there’s a thin line of how close he’s willing to let you get to him.

Genre: angst, pining, established relationship

CW: cursing, mentions of the flu/sickness, suggestive

Word Count: 2,860

"You're still burning up, but it's less than yesterday," you sigh heavily, hand pressed to the man's forehead as he huffs and brushes away your arm.

"I run hot; it's nothing," Dabi dismisses, sweat making his dark hair stick to his skin, his shirt and pants long since discarded in an attempt to keep cool. "Besides, I'm fucking shivering. I'm not worried about overheating," he mumbles, and you shake your head at him, already planning on getting another blanket from the living room.

"Shivering is part of the fever, Dabi. You know that. You probably didn't do yourself any favors by taking that hot bath last night," you scold gently. He huffs again but doesn't argue further, pretty blue eyes fluttering shut.

You'd never admit it, but you were glad he was here like this. You'd known he wasn't himself when he'd shown up unannounced two days ago. He'd been fidgety and clearly exhausted as he curled up around you, but it wasn't until you woke up to the man draped over you, drenched in sweat and hotter than any human should be, that you realized how sick he was.  

He'd protested when you'd woke him up in a panic, insisting he needed to let you get him medicine, insisted that he was fine. That is until his legs gave out at the doorway of your bedroom, and he'd dropped to his knees and admitted maybe he should stay.

Since then, it had been a cycle of medicines, showers, sleep, and food. If it had been up to Dabi, he'd have just slept the entire time, insisting he could handle his fever, even when he started to worry you.

The second night had been the hardest, when his body had started to reject anything he'd put in it, and you'd both spent the night hours sleeping in the bathroom- him in a nest of blankets on the floor and you in the bathtub. You'd been awake more than he had that night, ensuring he was still breathing and his temperature hadn't risen every few hours.

He'd started to refuse food, and it had taken everything in you not to sit on him and shove it down his throat, choosing to bargain with the sick man instead. Eventually, he'd accept saltines and nothing else, which had been enough for you.

You could remember clearly when the delirium had set in that night. Those tired blue eyes trained on you as he sat against the bathroom wall, sweat dripping down his face as he pressed a blanket further around himself.

"You're beautiful," he'd murmured sleepily, and you dragged your weary gaze to his. "I mean it. Can't believe you let me stay here. Let alone fuck your brains out regularly. Could be bagging pro-heroes with that face."

You'd just rolled your eyes and ignored his rambling for the next forty minutes until sleep thinned your patience, and you leaned over the edge of the tub to press a finger against his mouth, effectively shutting him up so the both of you could sleep.

"Hey. Don't look so worried." Dabi's voice drew you back to the present, where you stood with a bottle of ibuprofen, meaning to check when he could take another dose. "I'm not dying more than usual."

You glared at him at his words, and he shot you a knowing grin. "Glad you feel good enough to make those kinds of jokes," you muttered, setting the bottle back down on the table next to your bed. "Think you're up for a shower while I make you soup?" you pressed, and he paused for a moment before giving a slight nod, groaning as he sat up.

"You just love to get me naked," he taunted, shooting you a grin- although it showed just how tired he was, it still made your heart flutter. You paused in the doorway to turn and give him a sweet smile as you spoke.

"Dabi, baby, with all due respect, you stink," you informed him with a wrinkle of your nose, laughing softly when he flipped you off in response.

The past few days had been a blur of microwaved meals and crackers, and it suddenly dawned on you just how little you'd actually eaten. You hesitated as you looked through your fridge for something quick, your gaze landing on the chicken you'd meant to eat two nights ago. You sighed, pulling out the Tupperware container to throw it out as you pushed aside condiments to find other food that would soon spoil.

You straightened suddenly as you pushed aside onions, hot sauce, and soy sauce, reminded of a soup recipe from your childhood. Mentally you ran through the ingredients, checking them off as you found them in your fridge and cupboards, gathering them onto your counter.

Biting your lip, you glanced at the time, warring with yourself on whether you would be able to make it before Dabi inevitably reappeared. Your decision was made when you thought about all the money you'd be wasting if you didn't use some of your produce in your fridge soon.

You got to work quickly, chopping vegetables as you let water and broth boil on the stove, adding herbs and sauces. You lost track of time as you cooked, humming quietly to yourself, and jumped when a pair of warm hands landed on your hips.

"Sorry I took so long. What're you doing?" Dabi rasped quizzically, water dripping from his hair onto his shirt as he released you, puzzled when he watched you turn off the stove and grab a bowl.

"I made soup," you shrugged, watching from the corner of your eye when he peered into the pot, eyes widening.

"You made this?" he repeated, watching as you filled a bowl and handed it to him. He eyed the bowl suspiciously, and you stifled a laugh, giving him a spoon and gently pushing him to your small dining room table.

"It's not a big deal, Dabi. I had the ingredients and figured we both could use a break from canned soup and microwaved meals," you joked, grabbing yourself a bowl.

He said nothing, and you watched nervously as he stirred his spoon around the bowl for a moment before hesitantly taking a bite. His eyes widened as he groaned, mumbling under his breath.

"Holy fuck," he dug in quickly, and you smiled softly, shaking your head as you ate in the kitchen, cleaning your mess as you went. You gave him a gentle smile when he returned to the kitchen with an empty bowl, sheepishly gesturing to the pot.

You nodded, returning to cleaning as he poured himself a second helping, hiding your smile. It wasn't often you could surprise Dabi, even less often that he was so at ease, and you couldn't help the way it made you feel when it happened. He paused before he left, tugging you in by your hip so he could press a lingering kiss against your forehead before releasing you and returning to his spot.

Minutes passed as you finished wiping down the counter, and Dabi spoke up quietly, halfway through his second bowl. "You didn't need to put in so much work for me."

You laughed softly, wiping your hands on a towel before you turned to speak to him, walking around to his side of the table.

"I just figured it had been a while since someone made you a home-cooked meal," you murmured quietly, bending down to press your lips to his forehead. The action was intended to allow you to discreetly feel his temperature, but all you could feel was how he stiffened at your words.

A heavy silence suddenly settled between the two of you, and you pulled back quickly as he sat silently. You can tell you messed up, revealed too much, and struck a nerve all at once.

You move back to the sink, busying yourself with cleaning the dishes as you sneak a couple glances at him. He's staring down at the bowl, shoulders tight and his gaze unreadable, stormy as he thinks.

You want nothing more than to apologize for your careless words, to smooth away the angry wrinkle between his brows, but you don't. It wouldn't help. You'd learned early on that there were things you couldn't fix.

You're all too aware that loving Dabi sometimes means letting him hurt.

Not that you'd never tell him that's what you felt for him.

Love.

A stupid, four-letter word that had enough power to send him far from your arms if you slipped up and said it.

Because for Touya, love was the worst mistake of all. It meant he had to reveal the softest, most breakable parts of himself. It meant he had to care about something in his life that wasn't just revenge. And that simply wasn't something he was interested in, despite all the nights spent in your arms, in your bed.

You shake yourself, realizing you'd been scrubbing the same spoon for a ridiculously long time, and sigh, dropping your head for a moment. You look back at Dabi to see him watching you, his expression guarded as he takes another bite.

"I'm gonna head to bed," you murmured, ignoring the surprised look he shoots you.

You can't bring yourself to look at him, brushing past him instead to hurry down the hallway to your bedroom. Guilt and hurt gnawed at you as you changed into pajamas, and you hesitated before slipping his old T-shirt over your head. At this point, you wouldn't be surprised if he was gone before you woke up. At the very least, you'd get to keep a piece of him this time.

You ignore him when he comes into your room, eyeing you cautiously as you give him space. So you're surprised when he crowds you in the bathroom as you're drying your face, hands winding around your waist as he hooks a chin over your shoulder.

"You look good in my shirt," he rumbled, eyes avoiding yours when you looked at him in the mirror's reflection. His hands slip under your shirt to spread over your stomach, his pinky brushing along the underside of your breast, and you can't help the way you lean into it, sighing softly. He presses a kiss behind your ear, and then another one lower, and another, trailing a path down your neck.

"Dabi, baby, wait," you protest weakly, eyes squeezed shut as you try to focus with the way his lips latch onto the sweet spot on your throat, sucking a dark bruise onto it.

"Wanna thank you properly," he dismisses, spinning you around to face him. He doesn't give you a second to think before his hands grip the back of your thighs and lift you to wrap around his hips.

His lips are back on your skin as he walks, but you don't miss how he's breathing harder than usual or how his hands are shaking after he sets you down on the bed.

His movements are rushed as he settles between your legs, and it's only when he sits back to grip the waistband of your pajama shorts that you get a clear look at his face.

"Dabi, stop." you rush, hands grabbing his wrists as he freezes, pain-filled eyes rushing to meet yours. "I'm not fucking you. Not while you're clearly still sick," you soothe, expecting relief to flood the man's face.

"I don't understand," his tone is suddenly cold and detached as he sits back on his heels, hands curled into fists against his thighs.

You struggle to sit up at his words, your brows drawn down in confusion. "Don't understand what?" you press, reaching for his hand. He shifts out of your reach subtly, but his message is clear, sending a pang of hurt through you that you try to swallow down.

"In the kitchen, I thought you were upset because I didn't thank you right. I thought-" Dabi clamps his mouth shut suddenly as he turns his gaze away from you, jaw set.

You search his face for a moment, trying to connect the dots before it clicks. "Oh."

You don't mean for it to come out the way it does, and you can see his jaw tighten again as he begins to move away, and you shoot forward, hand curling around his wrist to stop him. If you let him go now, there's no telling when he'd return.

"Touya," You murmur softly. There's a reason you hardly use his birth name despite being given permission to, and you're reminded of that when he flinches at the sound falling from your lips.

"I didn't mean to sound so judgemental," your fingers slip up over his skin until you're cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at you as you speak. His gaze is clouded, eyes puffy from lack of sleep, and you can see weariness eating away at him now more than ever.

His expression doesn't shift, and it's as if he's looking right through you. You're firmer this time when you call his name, both hands cupping his face and forcing him to look at you.

"I'm not taking care of you because I expect you to crawl into my bed as thanks. I'm not taking care of you because I think you'll owe me after. I'm taking care of you because you eventually have to let someone do it, and I... I care," you admit quietly.

Because I love you and just want you to know that.

You don't say those words out loud, no matter how badly your heart is screaming at you. You ignore it as you brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead, his gaze softer now, relieved.

"I'm sorry," he begins to murmur, but you shush him, giving a slight shake of your head.

"No need to apologize. Just... don't forget that I'm here for you, okay? Not what you could do for me," You bite your lip, afraid that you're getting too close as you drop your gaze and hands from his face.

He hums in response, tilting your gaze back to his, and for the first time in a while, when you look at him, all you see is openness. No walls to break down, no hurt and fury vying for his attention. And for a split second, you wonder if he's as much in love as you are.

"Can I kiss you?" he rasps, and you nod, uncaring at this moment if he gets you sick. You just want to feel him. He leans in easily, his lips barely brushing over yours as he speaks, almost too low to hear him when he speaks. "Don't want to lose you,"

You want to pull away, want to ask him what he means, not even sure if you heard him correctly, but then he's slotting his mouth over yours in a kiss that steals all the air from your lungs.

Most of Dabi's kisses leave you breathless, but this one is different. There's more meaning behind it than the man in front of you can say, but it's as if he's trying his best to show you. A hand cups the back of your neck to guide you until your head hits the pillows again, his lips never leaving yours. His hands slide down your arms before entwining his fingers with yours and pulling them against his chest, right above where his heart is pounding.

He's gentle as he flattens your palm over the spot, nose bumping yours when he pulls away with a shaky breath, pressing feather-soft kisses over your cheeks and eyes before he sits up. He keeps your hand over his heart for a moment longer before lifting it to press one last lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist.

His blue eyes never waver from your face as he moves, and part of you wants to look away, to run from the intensity of his gaze, but you don't. He gives you one last soft kiss before he swings a leg off the bed, groaning as he stands.

"I'm going to go shower again; feel free to get some rest, doll," he invites, and you sit up as you watch him gather clothes to sleep in.

"No hot water, right? Just warm?" you remind him, and he laughs softly, coming around to your side of the bed again to press a kiss to the top of your head.

"Got it, doc. Get some sleep. I'll be back soon," he soothes. You watch him go, listening to the shower turn on a moment later.

You're already half-asleep when he returns, but you turn into his arms when he slides under the covers beside you, your head nestled under his chin.

He sighs deeply, and your breathing falls into sync with his as sleep begins to claim you, surrounded by his warmth and scent, partially masked by the smell of your shampoo.

You almost miss his words, whispered to what he assumed was just himself in the darkness.

"How the hell am I supposed to stop loving you?"

[sneezeshame]

someone laid up in a large, overstuffed lay-z-boy recliner, head rested on pillows and body wrapped in blankets pulled from their bed to make them more comfortable as they start to battle some kind of monstrous cold. it hit them like a truck just the day before, and now their bagged, heavy-lidded eyes are glazed as they stare blankly at the TV, breathing through their constantly parted chapped lips. they've crammed tissues up their flaming red nostrils in an attempt to just lie motionless for a while without having to tend to their stuffy, streaming nose, but every so often their breathing becomes heavier and their eyes wince closed as they hitch, pulling out their nose plugs and readying a thick wad of tissues from a box they've been pulling from for the past day. their sneezes are heavy, thick, and wet, and end with a flurry of sickly sniffling and a long, tentative nose blow, followed by a round of chesty coughs and a soft, stuffy groan from their parted lips.

they're very pale, they clearly dont want to do anything or even talk much at all, and they shiver under the blankets and ask their partner for an ice pack for the splitting headache they've developed. the expired cold medicine from the cabinet doesnt seem to make a dent, and when it comes for another round of nyquil their partner clocks their temperature at 101, creeping up towards 102. the sickie was wrong, and it isn't just a cold (as was obvious to their partner, who's never seen a cold this bad); in fact they're actually on day 1 or 2 of the flu, and a bad case of it. they're going to be spending the next 4-6 days slowly shuffling between their bed and the couch and recliner as their partner takes the guest bedroom, and it's going to get worse before it gets better.

the sickie takes this news better than anticipated, now feeling too sick to argue, and only sniffles miserably and says okay, then asks for something for the newly-sprung aches and pains all over their body.

"I think you're past the asprin we have," their partner says. "I might have to run out and get something a bit stronger for this."

"...Ogay..." the sickie mumbles, and sniffles. the first pricklings of chills are running up and down their body under their pajamas. "...cobe bagg sood...I dodd feel good add all..."

their partner leaves, and the sickie resumes staring blankly at the TV while they sniffle and cough, and their eyelids droop. they hadn't felt this sick in years, and while their partner had gotten their flu shot, they hadn't bothered. they had the feeling they would need to retreat to bed for a bit once their partner returned, just so they could lay motionless in the dark for a bit with their eyes closed and an icepack on their head, but they also didn't want to lose any warmth they had trapped in their sick nest in the lay-z-boy, or aggravate any aches more than they had to; maybe they would just stay put. but they would have to lay down in bed for the night.

the night was going to be rough, and they already feel horrible. they feel ten times worse than they had yesterday. they feel bad for having their partner do things for them. they feel miserable, like they're teeming with viruses, and they feel like their body is slowly melting into a heavy, mucusy blob of flu in their living room, unable to do anything but cough and sneeze and sleep propped up in the recliner, and indeed this last scenario is what they dream they are when they dose off and start into soft, congested snoring around the tissues they've stuffed up their nostrils, waiting for their partner to come home.

[hiseyeisonthesparrow]

I don't often have experiences where I can say "The Lord was definitely guiding my life" or "this thing DEFINITELY happened because of God", but today I did! Here's what happened.

I had the worst morning. Woke up halfway through my first hour of church, scrambled to get there late, had an awful Relief Society meeting, spent the next 3 hours in bed doomscrolling. I reached out to a musician friend thanking him because he invited me to a gig yesterday, and he invited me to perform another fantastic gig with him that day, which I had to turn down because, y'know, the Lord's day and all that. [that absolutely crushed me; I HATE missing out on opportunities to hang out, especially with him]. Finally crawled out of bed and went to eat lunch and my apartmates [apartment roommates] were taking up the entire kitchen. They made plans together right in front of me and my roommate/cousin/best friend and didn't invite either us to join. [it was like. they were gonna get flu shots together. so i didn't even want to go. but like, it was the whole principle of it, y'know??]

Needless to say, I was feeling absolutely freaking crushed. I was feeling isolated and lonely and worthless. For whatever reason, I felt super prompted to play accordion -- I usually play music to vent emotions, but usually not accordion. I told my roommate, who is watching me type this, "I'm gonna go play accordion outside so I don't do anything worse." And she said, "Cool, lemme grab my recorders and I'll join you."

So we sat on a bench outside our dorm and played hymns together for a while. Church was getting out for other wards, so a ton of other people walked past us and congratulated us, cheered us on, whatever -- I'm a musician by trade, so of course I love the attention [even if that wasn't my goal]. Eventually a group of girls came up to us and one of them said "I love what you're doing! I play violin, can I run and grab it and join in?" and we said "HECK YEAH" and she left.

Couple minutes later, another girl comes up and says "can I grab my recorder and ocarina and play with you? No worries if you end before I get back, I live kinda far." We went, "Oh my goodness yes", and a couple minutes later she gets back, red-faced and out of breath. That girl sprinted across campus to get her recorder to play with us.

We played for a while. People came and sat and sang along to our hymns. We took requests from passersby and picked random hymns from the children's songbook. We had to leave eventually for our temple prep class, but not before getting the phone numbers of plenty of other girls.

I left feeling like the absolute king of the world. I got to play music, meet new people, and help bring others closer to the Lord. I felt like I was using the talents the Lord gave me, and that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't totally 100% out of place at BYU. Perhaps someone up there has a plan for me and is looking out for me.

[Oh, and BTW, we're planning on having weekly sing-and-jam-alongs on BYU campus! DM me for details or for the Instagram account we're making dedicated to it ;} ]

[ppushable]

moodboard creds to @firefly--bright tytyty

low tide

jean kirschtein x fem!reader / multichapter / wc: 10.8k

part 2 of rose tinted hours

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

Monday morning and here I am, missing out on my classes, struck with a sore throat and an invisible ax sticking out of my head.

Maybe the only nice thing about today is the man craning over me in the dark, feeding me porridge.

That, and the overly-sweet tea.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

cw: kissing.

there's a soundtrack for this one! completely optional, of course.

queue: ==> new home (slowed), austin farwell ==> dreamcore, daniel.mp3 ==> farewell, erikson jayanto ==> october, adrián berenguer ==> parfum d’etoiles, ichiko aoba ==> i was only temporary 2 u, my head is empty ==> might start singing - sped up, sheldon charlot

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

The figures in front of the dorm converge in front of Jean’s car as they engage in some sort of conversation. Sasha (I think that’s Sasha) slinks around Jean’s taller form and attaches herself to the side of his car, being scraped off a moment later.

Unsticking myself from the window, I carefully reposition the dark blue curtains so that no light filters through, the simple action causing my head to swim as if filled with honey.

I got Jean’s flu. Which, obviously, is to be expected, considering what happened yesterday. Paired with the fact that we slept together last night.

As in, laid down and fell asleep in the same bed with nothing strange happening in between. Whoever came up with that wording needs to be shot.

Contrarily, Jean is perfectly fine. And despite all the urging that I’ll be fine too and that he shouldn’t skip out on classes, he’d insisted on staying right here.

Not that I’m complaining.

I glance at the red numbers projected onto the corner of the ceiling indicating the time as I sit back so I’m leaning against the wall. 8:28. Almost time for my first class, which I won’t be going to, as so firmly put by Jean before I shooed him away.

“If I come back here and the room’s empty, I’ll make Connie march into Hospitality with a condom pulled over his head with your name written on it.”

He’d do that, too.

Running my hands over Jean’s fleecy Cars blanket, I find and unlock my phone to type a quick message to Sasha.

me: sorry sash,, not coming to hospitality. i got sick :(

me: jeans staying home for me tho. dont wait up <3

Pray she doesn’t get the wrong idea.

sashacado: dw about it!!!

sashacado: 😏

I shut my eyes as the screen induces a sudden wave of dizziness. Alright then. Knowing her, everyone and their mom will know about this before the day ends. I toss the phone somewhere on my bed and it falls to the ground.

Jean, where are you?

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

He nearly barrels into an old lady in the soup aisle. With a profuse apology, he continues half-jogging to the fridges, glancing at the list on his phone.

🖤: onions, rotisserie chicken (should be on sale), chicken broth

🖤: oh also rice. and carrots and mushrooms if u can. plus milk. thats a must

🖤: im trusting u wkth this. if u spend over budget im scalping u personally

🖤: <3

He can’t help the little smile that twinges his mouth with the last text. There it is. The end product of many sleepless nights, wondering if his feelings were, in fact, reciprocated. All in a little text. Less than three. Two dumb symbols he’s dreamed of receiving. It makes his heart feel a little warmer in his chest, a little heavier, like a reverse-Grinchification. The good ending, he can hear Connie saying.

That, or he’s misconstruing the whole thing. That’s definitely possible too! She sends that little symbol to everyone. For all he knows, he probably moved up the friend ranking a little. It probably means nothing at all.

Watching the pill be so carelessly popped into her mouth, that small smile, the look in those eyes. Hands on the headboard. Hand on his body. Hand in his hair—

“Woah! Excuse me, sir—”

And then reality comes shooting back to him like an oncoming bullet train, because nothing snaps Jean out of his happy place like that voice.

“Kirschtein?”

Jean stops in his tracks and slowly turns, somewhat hoping it’s not who he thinks it is yet knowing at the same time. “Jaeger.“

“What the hell are you doing? You can’t run in a grocery store.”

And there he is in the flesh; Eren Jaeger, the hobo-looking microbiology major that for some reasons girls (even stone-cold Mikasa) love to swoon over. Not that he cares, really. What’s more important is the fact that he’s in full customer service garb: plain jeans with lanyard string sticking out of the front pocket, blue vest, retractable name tag.

And Jean can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of his chest.

“What the hell are you laughing at?” Eren mutters, damn well knowing why.

“What, no ‘hello, sir?’ Aren’t— aren’t you supposed to be asking if I need help finding anything? Sir?” The old lady in the soup aisle is staring at him as he devolves into a full cackle.

Eren’s scowl deepens. “That’s low, Kirschtein, even for you.”

“Stop being such a pissbaby. I’m only laughing because it’s you.”

“Romantic.” Rolling his eyes, Eren shoves his hands into his pockets. “Speaking of which, don’t you have someone waiting for you at your dorm?”

Jean shuts up immediately and blinks. “What?”

“You know, your lover.” He smirks. “Sasha told us all about you two.” He ducks his head to do something on his phone and a second later Jean’s own pings.

aaron yogurt: One image attachment

Raising an eyebrow, Jean moves back against the aisle (away from soup lady’s scrutinizing gaze) before opening it. It’s a screenshot of a groupchat, with the first text being a screenshot from Sasha of what appears to be some texts.

sash: we did it boys

bald idiot: 🔥🔥💯💯‼️🤯🤯🥶��🥶🥶

bald idiot: everyone stand up and clap for sasha

sash: ill fucking kill you springer

miks: so are they together now?

sash: UH YEAH DIDNT U READ THE TEXT? JEAN TRANSFERRED HIS SICKNESS. HOW? THEY SLEPT OVERNIGHT IN JEANS DORM. TOGETHR. WITH NOBODY AROUND. ALL MY DOING TYVM. AND NOW THEIR STILL TOGETHEE.

min: That’s inconclusive, Sasha. You can get sick just being near a person.

marc (replying to @/sash): they’re*

marc: besides who would leave Jean there all alone overnight?

me: me

And then the screenshot cuts off.

“Romantic,” Eren drawls.

“Shut up.” Jean makes a mental note to find and perhaps tie Sasha to a rocket.

“Oh, come on. Everyone knows you’re whipped. You’re like a little schoolgirl when it comes to this kind of stuff.” Bringing his fists up to his face, he puts on the stupidest face ever and giggles.

“Fuck off.” Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Jean tries to cover the heat on his face. “Just tell me where the hell you guys put the chicken.”

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

The sound of the front door unlocking heaves me out of the half-drowsy phase I’ve been simmering in for the last, what… I glance at the ceiling clock again. Half hour?

“Hey! I’m back!” Every word becomes a little louder as Jean barges down the hall, tosses something into Connie’s room, and appears in the doorway.

“What was that?”

“Huh?”

“The thing you put in Connie’s room.”

His shadow pauses. “Just… something for Connie. Is everything okay?”

I smile. “How the hell did you go to the gym like this?”

Plastic crinkles as he sets the bag down on the ground. “Well,” he says, walking closer, “I was thinking of you. And how much you love my really big muscles.”

My smile cracks wider. “Is that so.”

“Mhm.”

“Were you also—”

“Mmm?”

“—thinking about how pissed I would be—”

He inhales.

“—when I found you?”

His lips curve upward, maybe a little to close to mine. “Maybe a little.”

I tap his thick sleeve. “Go take this big thing off.”

He recoils immediately. “As you wish.” And sheds the coat, dumping it against his chair.

“Are you hungry?”

Fixing his sleeve, he shrugs.

“What do—” my voice cracks as it runs dry— “what do you eat when it’s just you and Connie?”

“Cereal. Bread sometimes.”

“I really expected better from you.”

“I’m healthy.”

I let my eyes drag shut. “Your idea of fighting off a cold is… going to the gym.”

“Healthy.”

“You’re a piece of work.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do the— does the window open?”

Clothes rustle. “Yeah. But I’m not opening it.”

“It’s hot.”

And he looks back. “You’re sick.”

“Well, I don’t plan to strip in front of you.”

Jean sighs but it only takes a moment for it to turn into a laugh. “Alright.”

I try to swallow but my throat’s dried up between the time I woke up and now. “I’m getting up.”

“Sure you are.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“Aren’t you needy?” he teases. “What do you want? I can get it for you.”

“You’ll burn the dorms down trying to make tea.”

“Since when did you have such little faith in me?”

I crack my eyes open. “Connie told me you tried to stop a grease fire by splashing water on it.”

He’s rolling his eyes. “Your first mistake was believing Connie. He loves to spread misinformation. Especially about me.”

“Okay, Jean.” I shake my hand in his general direction and he takes it, large, warm hand clasping mine. “Pull me up.”

He smiles and leans in to wrap his other arm under my knees, his neck pressing into my face. Muffled, cheap cologne. “What are you doing?”

In one smooth movement, he releases my hand to slide his other arm across my back. Holding me at the anchor points.

“Wait.” Already a sinking feeling drains through my organs. “Jean, wait—”

With a small heave he lugs me off the bed and my arms immediately sling around his neck. “Jean!”

“Hmm?”

“Put me down!” And I would be laughing if not for my throat and the fact that I’m clinging on for dear life.

He looks down at me, still with that smile. “Hmm. No.”

And the way his voice rumbles through his chest into mine as he hums deeply makes me want to explode. I dive my face into the cloth of his sweatshirt, ignoring the strange way my weight is distributed, the chance that something might slip and I’ll fall to my untimely demise.

“You can let go of me.” He starts walking. “I won’t drop you.”

Pushing harder into his chest, I say, “I’m heavy.”

“No, you’re not.” As if to prove himself, he lifts me a few inches higher as he shimmies through what I think is the door. My grip tightens as the pressure on my back and thighs increases. “Okay, you’re choking me.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Relax, okay? I’m strong.“

“Jean.”

“Come on, look at me.”

I have to force myself to meet his eyes.

It’s not just about how high up I am, or how heavy I might be, or how intimidatingly good-looking he is (I definitely look like shit). It’s about the power.

Things have changed since yesterday. Now it’s Jean’s turn to take charge. And just like he did, I’ll have to allow that.

==> new home (slowed), austin farwell

“Do you trust me?“

His words hit like boulders against my stomach and his eyes are so wide as they dig into mine, so willing to accept the outcome yet so full of this new, gentle compassion that I’ve never seen before. A willingness. An invitation. An assurance. A desire.

So many sides of Jean I’ve never seen before have been presented to me in the past day and it makes my head so heavy it might snap clean off my neck and roll across the floor with the other boulders like a macabre marble match.

Do I trust him?

With a final squeeze, I let my hands fall to rest on either side of his chest. He smiles, showing a sliver of teeth.

Of course I do.

I watch his face as we go to the makeshift kitchen. “So you want tea?”

Though he can’t see me nod, he should be able to feel it.

“It’s easy, right? I just boil some water, and then. I.” Seemingly unconscious to the action, he worries his upper lip as he thinks. “We’ll get there when we get there.” He looks back down. “Where’s the tea?”

With a stupid grin I point to the cabinet where I found the tea and Jean lifts me to height — fucking lifts me a good five feet into the air — so I can snatch the tea packets. “Put me down! I’ll kill your arms.”

He lowers me back to waist-chest height. “So that’s the tea.”

I set the box on my stomach. “You— you’ve never used it before?”

“Forget I said anything. Now what?”

“Now, we… are you sure you don’t want to put me down?”

He rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t separate like a chameleon’s. “I’m strong. Let me carry you.”

God I want to shut his smirk up so bad but if I’m in no position to reach up and… I don’t know. I’d do something. Arrogant little prick. “Counter.”

Jean obliges and I take the kettle one-handedly, emptying the old water and adding more, enough for two cups again. “You want some?”

“Is there enough for both of us?”

“Yeah.”

“Hit me.”

I hit the plunger on the kettle. “Mugs.”

So we move like this, a strange, inefficient, two-person machine. I nearly drop one of the cups, all the cabinet doors are left open, and nearly a quarter of the milk got spilled because I cut the hole in the milk bag too big.

But we got it done. Like yesterday, I find myself drawing little circles into his back, and again, I have to stop myself. “Are you sure you don’t want to—”

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish my sentence.”

“I know what you’re thinking anyway.”

What an asshole. “There’s milk all over the ground.”

“I’ll clean it.”

“I can’t drink my tea if you’re carrying me.”

“I think we have a straw somewhere.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes and I smack his back. “At least let me sit. My legs are going numb.”

“That I can do,” he purrs, every word dripping with smug that lands on my face like hot wax. I want to curl into myself as he swings me like a mannequin, placing me on the couch as if I’m made of cobwebs. “Don’t move.”

I’m going to kill him. Cold air presses in on me and I push myself into the rough fabric in a vain attempt to escape it.

Jean returns with both mugs and offers one to me before sitting down on the other side of the couch and taking a sip, recoiling immediately as if slapped. “Hot!” He puts the mug down and hones in on me. “Don’t drink it yet.”

Rubbing the sides of the cup, I soak in the fleeting warmth it offers me. “I’m thirsty, Jean.”

He blinks, putting his hands up as if suddenly unsure of what to do with them. “Uh.” Then he holds them out. “Here.”

Our hands brush as I hand over my beverage. Once, twice, he dips his head forward as if to drink it, purses his lips, and asks, “is it okay if I blow on it?”

I get a little warm inside. “You… don’t have to do that.”

“I’d like to. I mean,” he adds quickly, “if you’re comfortable with that.” Two of his fingers tap the glass in a rhythm known only to himself. I smile a little. Didn’t we literally kiss?

“Okay.”

He flashes me a quick smile in return before puckering and puffing gently, cautiously into the tea, blowing small ripples that lap at the opposite side of the mug but never spill over. I trace a green line on the couch until it disappears over the curve of the back cushion and a shiver abruptly passes through me.

“Jean.”

“Mmm?”

With effort, I wrench myself into a sitting position, spurring him to look over from his delicate task.

“Hey—”

“Sorry. Can I… can I hold you?”

He stops. I stop. “Oh, I— uh.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Of course.”

Hesitantly, my arms snake around his closest to me and I lean my head against his shoulder. Feeling the expansion and contraction of his chest with every forced exhalation.

This feels different from last night. That was a necessity. I mean, I couldn’t leave him all alone; he was in rough shape. Not to mention he didn’t want to be alone. Not that he… terribly influenced my decision. No. I did it because I’m taking care of him and nothing more. Like… inserting a catheter. Strictly a necessity.

As for the pill, well. That’s… well, I’m just kidding myself at this point.

Maybe I am a bit in love with him. Maybe I don’t know what to do with myself around him anymore. Should I lean in for a quick peck? Give him a fist bump? Stroke or tousle his hair?

He likes me back, right? He does, right? I mean, the way he looks at me is… different.

Right?

I close my eyes. “Tell me a story.”

“Mmm.” His little baritone hum, deep in his chest; does he know what it does to me? “Tea first.”

Groggily, I open my eyes as the warm brim of the mug presses against my bottom lip and tilts; I open to let the warm fluid run into my mouth. “Mmmh,” I grunt, and he puts the mug away.

“You were saying?” Jean says softly, landing his closest hand over my shoulder, rubbing in circles with his thumb. I look into his eyes and the acidic words forming on my tongue neutralize right there.

“Tell me a story.”

“Let’s get comfy first.”

I let my head fall onto his arm again but he takes my shoulder and gently pushes me onto my back, hovering over me, silhouetted by the light. “Is your neck okay like this?”

My words are but a whisper. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he murmurs as he lies down himself, trapping me between his warm body and the back of the couch. It’s small piece of furniture; Jean’s visible leg hangs over the other armrest and he probably has the other on the ground.

“Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

His breath hits my face as he speaks. “It’s okay.”

My eyes trace up the curve of his body, up to his face which is so close to mine we might as well be touching, and he smiles again, and this time I can see how it lights up his entire face; the way his skin stretches, the way his eyes get a little smaller. If I really focus, I can see my own reflection.

“What kind of story do you want?”

“Whatever makes you happy.”

Our gazes don’t break as he pauses, and when he speaks, his voice fills the air between us, vibrating every molecule. “When I was a kid, my mom would tell me stories.”

“Mmm-hm.”

“They were always about my dad. And I never really understood why she told me these stories.” He breathes out in amusement. “I’d get so… irritated. Asked her why she always told me stories about the guy that didn’t — doesn’t — even care about us.”

As he speaks, his focus wanders, but always lands back on me. I reach for the arm that rests at his side and pull it in between us. He watches the whole time but doesn’t shrink away.

“And she would always say that the memories they had together were real, even if it didn’t turn out in the end. And I’d tell her he’s just a deadbeat and that she shouldn’t care about him.”

“Mmm.”

“And then I met you.”

I can’t help it. I smile again.

“And then I just… understood. How it’s the little moments you hold on to the most.” And he grins.

“Maybe,” I murmur, swiping my thumbs over his warm, fleshy palms, “it’s the other way around.”

He blinks. “Maybe.”

==> dreamcore, daniel.mp3

I bring his hand up to face level, examine the veins that splay out beautifully under his skin, weaving between tendons, plunging deep into the muscle and bone and fat. “Tell me one of your mom’s stories.”

It takes a moment for him to think. “It was after high school. Their last summer together. He was going into fine arts and she was going to study medicine.”

“Mmm.”

“But that night, long after the sun went down and the birds stopped singing, they were just walking around aimlessly. Nothing to do except enjoy each other’s company, I guess.”

Something shifts in his tone as he lapses into the narrator’s perspective.

“But even though they were spending time together as usual, both were thinking about how one day, very soon, they were going to move to opposite sides of the country and maybe never see each other again.”

“But they did see each other again, right?” His skin burns against mine. “They had you.”

“Well, not exactly.” His hand suddenly gains life, flexing lightly. “That’s the summer I was… conceived.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Needless to say, I’m not super close with my grandparents.” He purses his lips and now he’s looking at his fingers. “That’s an entire story on its own. Anyway. They were walking together at night, fearless to whatever was in the dark. Only their own futures.

“And while they were walking it suddenly started to rain. My mom said it came out of nowhere, like a bucket of water was poured on their heads. So they did what any other person would do.”

“Go home?”

“Run to the park.”

“Sounds like something you’d do.”

“Shush, you… They ran for the park like their lives depended on it, but they were soaked by the time they got there. So they decided to have a picnic in the pouring rain. And they stayed there until the rain stopped and the birds started singing again.”

“What happened after?”

“Well, by the time she got to that part in the story, I fell asleep.”

I huff lightly. “Finish it for me.”

After some hesitation, he speaks again. “When the birds started singing, they noticed a strange person in the trees. It appeared to be a man in a fedora.”

I crack my eyes open, not realizing they shut in the first place. “A fedora?”

“Fedoras are cool!”

The worst part is, I can imagine him wearing one.

“Stop laughing.”

“Sorry.” Without thinking, I use his hand to cover my mouth. “Continue.”

“The— the man in the — hat — approached the two. And he asked them if they’d seen his notebook anywhere. It was a sketchbook, he said, and he liked to draw birds. They said no, so he kept moving on.

“Truth is, he didn’t use it to draw birds. He liked drawing people.”

I hum.

“People were everywhere, and every one looked so different. Every mark and wrinkle was a testament to their way of life. He’d examine people’s faces for so long, he could see things that others couldn’t. He noticed things that the faces’ owners didn’t.

“He’d bring that little sketchbook everywhere, drawing every face that he saw, beautiful, ugly, short, long. And after a while of doing this, he realized that, despite all faces being slightly different, they were all the same, too. They were all strangers in his life, predictable. Every face followed a… a pattern. He couldn’t quite put it into words.”

I give his hand a small squeeze.

“One day, he went to the cafe. And of course, he brought his sketchbook with him. He sat on a barstool near the corner of the restaurant, right in front of the big window, and started sketching the people walking outside. When the waiter came up and asked what he wanted, he asked for a coffee.

“He didn’t look back up until the waiter returned, and when he looked into her face to say thank you, he noticed something strange.

“It was pretty, the most beautiful face he’d seen in his life, and he’s seen a lot of faces. It wasn’t just her face, though. It was her mannerism, her tone of voice, the way she stirred his drink a little so the grounds and sugar wouldn’t sink all the way to the bottom and the way she asked if there was anything else that she could do for him, as if the question was truly asked out of her heart and not just because she’s getting paid to… this person, at that moment, broke the pattern.”

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

When I wake up, the Cars blanket is draped over me. Music plays over the sound of the sink running, and if I listen close enough, I can hear Jean humming along. Dishes clash.

“Shit!”

I must have fallen asleep with my mouth open, because now my throat is so dry it takes an effort to swallow. Slowly, I sit up and lean forward to take a sip of (cold) tea, but it doesn’t do much for the wheeze in my lungs. Jean starts singing softly with the chorus.

“And don’t go there ‘cuz you’ll never return…”

Standing there, washing dishes like a maniac and singing. The strands of his voice, like a bobbing needle, weave between the guitar and bass, and at times it’s hard to differentiate them at all, the tangle of melody and tempo. I melt into the sound, dissipating into thin air. Almost forgetting how much harder it became to breathe.

“Then you did something wrong and you said it was great…”

I stand at a snail’s pace — not avoiding the sudden pressure in my head as I do so — and drag myself into the kitchen.

There’s a dishcloth slung over his left shoulder and his hair’s tied up with — I check my wrist — my hairtie. Seemingly careless of his crime, he nods his head slightly with the music, biting his upper lip in concentration. I wouldn’t forgive him if he didn‘t look so…

at ease. Loose?

Happy.

The sink suddenly spits water at him, drenching his already-wet sweatshirt.

“Ugh.” And now he looks up. “Oh.”

I smile as the singer reaches a high note and Jean hurriedly shuts off the tap.

“Alexa, stop. What’re you doing up?” The music cuts and he rushes to my side in an instant, cupping my shoulders as if expecting I’ll collapse. There’s a spoon in his hand and it drips on the ground. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“I was sleeping.” His top-knot sticks out and it’s just begging for me to touch it. “You have a… beautiful voice. By the way.”

He eyes the ground, reddening. “Yeah, yeah.”

Without thinking I tap his cheek. “Let’s cook,” I say. “I’m hungry.”

Jean blinks, touching the area of impact. “Cook?” He stirs again when I snatch the dishcloth from his shoulder. “Wait! No, you’re sick!” But I’m already in the kitchen.

“Oh, you… put the groceries away?”

“I’m not a barbarian. Sit down.” He tosses the spoon in the dish strainer. “Let me cook.”

“No, Mr. White.” I clear my painful throat.

“Ha, ha. Sit down, okay? Do you want me to bring a chair over?”

When he touches my shoulder I turn. “Jean, really.” But my voice is small, and it betrays me, the familiar weakness sapping at my muscles and limbs. “If I have to eat another… butt-end almond butter and cheese sandwich I’m really gonna lose it.”

==> farewell, erikson jayanto

His jaw clenches and unclenches. “Okay. Fine. But I’m helping you.”

“In that case.” I use the cloth to wipe up the water around the sink. “Chopping board. Please.”

“On it.”

“Knife?” Cloth hangs over the tap.

“Yep.”

Taking an extra deep breath in an attempt to sever the strings binding down my lungs, I joke, “don’t kill me.”

He takes the utensil in a stabbing pose. “No promises.”

I bat his arm aside, to the counter. “You know how to cut vegetables, right?”

“Yeah, I know how.”

As he rummages in the fridge to make himself useful, I rinse the rice in a definitely overqualified patterned bowl, nearly falling asleep as my hand draws lazy circles in the warm grains. I’m done in time to see him cut up a carrot — attempt to, at least. He sticks the knife in at bizarre angles and intervals, creating weird orange blocks that skid away from the board after every uneven chop.

“Jean.”

“Eh?” His voice is muffled because he’s biting his lip again. It’s painfully obvious that he’s never done this before.

“Did you peel it?”

“I told you, I’m not barbaric.”

I wrap a hand around his left hand — his chopping hand — and lift it above my head. Jean is silent as I push into the space between his body and the counter and put his arm back to lock myself in. He doesn’t budge as I lean heavily back against him. “Like this.” And I grab the backs of his warm hands like computer mice and awkwardly move them into a good position.

His every breath presses against me, chin resting on top of my head, and if I lean just right I can feel his heart race against my back.

And the heat. Maybe it’s just the sickness raising my body temperature, but it burns where we touch.

“Cut.”

He does, muscles and tendons going rigid under my grip as he puts his weight on the blade. The carrot slice rolls away and falls off the counter, but Jean catches it. “Aha.” His voice a vibration in his throat. “See that?” He brandishes it in front of me like a trophy.

“Yes, Jean, very impressive.”

We position ourselves again. Jean lets me set his hand at an angle so the tip of the knife leans down. “Try cutting. At an angle.”

He does, requiring little help from my guiding hand. The carrot slice stays on the cutting board. Amused, I twist to look up at his face.

Jean looks shocked as if I caught him doing something heinous and his skin reddens like he’s just been blasted with four hours of unadultered sunlight. His mouth becomes a smile despite it all. “Ma— uh, magical.”

It’s like this for a few seconds before I turn back to our work. “Let’s finish.”

What are you doing to me?

It turns out Jean is quite the natural; after just a few more tries he can use the knife on his own, and I’m just decoration. If you think about it, cooking is a kind of art. And Jean is good with his hands.

I stick with him, though.

“Any pots?”

“Mmm. We have one under the stove.”

“Another gift from Reiner?”

He scoffs lightly. “That was a one-time thing.”

I reach backwards for his arm and end up tapping his bicep. “Pot.”

He detaches from my back and I suddenly realize how cold the air is — it’s like a warm blanket was thrown off me. I lean against the counter. The pot of choice, a great red thing that looks like it’s never been used before, is plopped on to one of the burners and Jean immediately wraps around me again. Delirious heat.

“Thanks.”

“Now what?”

“This way.” I shuffle us over to the stove, stepping on his feet a few times, and turn the element on. “We put the rice in.”

Jean’s on it, taking the bowl and unceremoniously dumping in the rice.

“Not yet!”

He recoils. “Oh, oops.”

Shit. Knowing it’s going to hurt, I swallow anyway. “It’s okay.” I grin reassuringly, though he can’t see it. “Just need to stir.” Grateful for his presence, I search the drawers for a spatula — a nice wooden one — and hand it to Jean.

“Me?”

“Think you can do it?”

He takes it, grasping the pot handle, and pushes the rice around the pot. “Like this?” he asks, not noticing the jab. Just dripping with innocence. I feel bad.

“Perfect.”

“How long?”

“Until you feel like it’s done.”

His chest undergoes a sudden compression as he huffs and I realize just how much I’m leaning on him. “And how do I know that?”

I shrug.

So Jean stirs.

“Hm?” he says when I nudge him after a while.

“Add the broth now. And carrots.”

He hums. We turn in tandem so he can fetch the former from the fridge and I watch as he pours it slowly.

“That’s enough.”

As Jean inhales deeply his beard scratches my cheek; he’s bringing his head down to my level. I turn to meet his gaze and smile. “What?”

His eyes flutter to my chin and back.

“You want something?”

He doesn’t stop boring into me, swirling something deep in my gut like a witch’s brew. “I dunno.”

“I do.” I tilt my head up at the slightest angle to afford him a better view and his eyes widen. “You want the carrots. In the pot.”

There’s a little tic in his expression. Like he wants to engulf me, pull me deep into himself. But he just breathes, “right.” And dumps the carrots.

Stirring…

“Are you tired?”

“No.” I clear my throat again and it takes a while for the phlegm to go away fully. My feet shuffle back in an attempt to support myself, to no avail. “Bought chicken?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s tear some of it.”

==> october, adrián berenguer

The spatula clicks against the stovetop as Jean puts it down. “Wait.” I turn to meet him, backing against the hard edge of the counter, and the world turns to mush before I gather my bearings. “Wait,” he repeats, softer, putting his hands down on either side of me, locking me in place. “I need to say something.”

“Jean?” Skin turning cold where we once touched. Knees loose. Breath heavy and laboured. I latch onto his gaze and stay there. He is quicksand, sucking me in deeper with no bottom in sight, and I’m powerless to it, to the shifting grains and the lashing wind, the indefinite maelstrom of everything built up and unsaid. Until he says it, and the storm stills.

“What… are we?”

My breath is loud; every one another closer to the answer. The witch’s brew is long since tipped over, seeping its uneasy juices into my bones and muscles and tendons, rendering me feeble and invertebrate.

What are we?

“What do you want… us to be?”

A heartbeat of pause. His voice is soft but confident and takes over my every sense, light filtering into dark, soup into ice, pain into numbness. “More than this. More than what we had before.”

My hands gravitate to cover Jean’s and brush up to rub his forearms, right before the wrists, and I can see the terror that he holds, the possibility of abandonment that he keeps framed up and hung away in a little corner of his mind.

“Like now?”

His eyelids shut, separating us for a few seconds before he opens them again. “No.” And he lowers to my height. “Not like this. I dont— I don’t want any more second-guessing. No more in-betweens. I just— I need to know if we’re together or if we’re just…” He does that thing with his lip again. “I can’t do it anymore. Wondering how close I should be walking beside you, if I should offer you my chair or share it, if— if you’ll ever think of me the same way I think of you.” Despite swallowing, his voice wavers still. “I really think highly of you. I mean, I just— I— sometimes.” The last word is uttered with a small sigh as if he’s accepting defeat.

“Sometimes I feel like you’ve taken me over completely. It sounds stupid, I know, I… When we’re all together, I’m always… thinking about you. If you’ll like this thing. What I should say to make you laugh. God, I love your laugh. There’s just something… about… you… that makes me want to be by your side, and when I’m not, it doesn’t feel right, I didn’t know what right felt like until I met you. When I— I… looking at you just makes me really, really happy, and I’ve never really felt like this before. Never felt so ready to do anything, absolutely anything for a person.” He inhales deeply. “I’m— it’s hard for me to describe how I feel, but in the end I just know.

“I’m in love— I’m in love with you, the way you walk, your voice, the way you’re always looking around, everything that you think is a flaw and… I don’t want to play this game of in-between anymore because this, not knowing how you feel, is killing me. If you— you don’t have to say yes. I just need to know. What are we?”

What are we?

The frame is broken, fallen off its hook, glass shattering on impact as the wooden body collapses and snaps in on itself. Cutting countless tiny holes torn into the fabric guise of courage. Hands trembling against my sides.

The answer I want to give him is there, a vibrating and incomprehensible bundle of warmth and devotion and tenderness that is utterly unattainable behind the metal barrier of the spoken word, as much as it beats and bores into the confines of its enclosure. How much longer?

They say that eyes are the windows to the soul. It’s more like a well. Dark, deep, secretive of what lies inside behind its deceptive beautiful adornments.

But if I let myself go, if I allow myself to hang over the stone ledge and slip in to see for myself, despite the fear of hitting the cold, lonely bottom…

My hand cups his cheek and he tilts his head, leaning into it.

“Jean.”

He says my name back, just as tender, twice as fearful, and the unfamiliar frequency twinges a string in my consciousness. I open my mouth.

“How you managed to fall for me is… it’s beyond me. You’re smart, you’re strong, you’re talented… To me, you’re about as attainable as a star.”

He shakes his head tightly but I continue as he inhales to speak, hints of his voice catching the air through his throat.

“You might not think so but you’re… whenever I’m with you I just feel like everything is going to be okay in the end.” My chest burns and my voice falters. “You make me feel safe. When I imagine our future together, I’m— we’re always happy.”

If I wasn’t touching him I would never notice the small nod of gentle encouragement he gives, so much hope piled onto such a tiny movement.

“And it’s been eating away at me, because every time we look at each other I have to wonder— I have to stop and ask myself if you really like me back too.”

His eyes widen. My pulse races through my body; he can probably feel it through my hand. The truth, that’s all it is, comes pouring out unrestricted, a torrent of words tearing through my soul.

“What are we? That’s a silly question. We spend time with each other and care for each other. We share our food and our beds. You passed an important test last month and I brought everyone over with cake to celebrate, and you know my schedule so you always come to the cafe when I’m working.” I puff in amusement. “And it’s when I least expect it, too. We share so many playlists it isn’t even funny anymore, because you influenced my taste in music so much.”

“You’re the one who influenced me,” he says with a small smile.

“Frankly, I’m in love with you, and— and you’re in love with me.” I sway on my feet and put my other hand to his face to steady myself. “We know that now. We know that, so isn’t that enough? We’re two people in love, who act like they’re in love, who know they’re in love… Has anything really changed?” My peripheries go blurry. “Can’t we figure it out from here? No labels?”

“No labels.” A smile is cracking his face, skin pulling beneath my palms as his eyes crinkle, shattering the restrictive veil he wears and painstakingly paints on every morning. “We’re us. You’re right. Nothing’s changed at all. Just two people in love.” His grin widens. “Just… us.”

I smile too, I smile until my face hurts and I start giggling, but Jean is right there with me, unable to help the laughter that rings around his ribcage with a melody that is uniquely his. I let my head drop and he closes the distance between us, pulling me deep into himself, and it’s like an invisible film wrapped around me has been popped for the first time. We’re hugging for the first time. We’re touching for the first time. Unrestricted. Without fear.

Two people in love.

My laughs soon turn into coughs and the illusion is broken. Jean steps back, still pinning me against the counter.

“You want more tea?”

I scan the kitchen. “I don’t suppose Reiner got you guys a microwave?”

“I’ll make more.”

“But—”

“No buts. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say before the clamouring in my mind.

“Go lie down. I’ll finish up here.”

I turn my head up and a string in my neck suddenly starts to burn, halting the action. Stiff neck. I look down at his socks.

“You sure?”

His hands enter the picture and take mine. “Let’s get you to bed, okay? Granny?”

“You know what? Just take me to the gym.”

He hisses through his teeth. “Okay, I get your point. I’m sorry.”

Pot bubbling away in the background, we make it to the bedroom. I roll onto Jean’s criminally soft covers and he drapes the quilt over me, trapping me in my own heat.

“Go to sleep, okay?” His voice is a soft rumble, sandpaper fleece.

“Okay, father.”

“I don’t want to see the lights on when I walk by,” he adds, sternly.

“Or what?”

His dark form pauses, then leans down against my ear. “Sleep.” And he plants his lips against my hot cheek before withdrawing.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

me: @/chismosa

me: sash

me: wya

chismosa: im at the store

me: ??? i thought we were meeting at urs?

chismosa: change of plans! eren said jean came in whilw he was working soo

chismosa: just wait there. shave ur head or sth

chismosa: dont use my razor tho

me: .

me: ur lucky my phones abt to die or i woukd call nd cuss u out

me: im just gonna go back to mine

chismosa: wait

chismosa: cons

me: phobe dying

chismosa: CONNIE NO

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

When the spoon clinks against the bowl my head nearly splits open. My mouth is dry because my nostrils are plugged and everything inside me feels warm and centrifuged. I try to breathe in through my nose, fail, and end up coughing instead.

“Oh—” Jean drops his book— “are you awake?”

“It got worse,” I croak.

He smiles wryly. “Yeah. It’s pretty bad.” The sketchbook on the ground skids under the bed when he kicks it as he stands. “You hungry? Thirsty? Hot?”

I shut my eyes, not daring to move. “Just want to sleep.”

“You should eat something.”

“I don’t wanna puke.”

“You won’t puke.”

“You did.”

“That’s my own fault and you know it.” He reaches for something on the nightstand and produces a bowl. “You should at least try it. Please?” With the disposition of a kid trying to show off a cool drawing that he made.

“You finished making it?” I start to lift my head but Jean lunges forward.

“Wait! Let me.” He reaches over my lap for the pillows on the other side and works on propping them up against my back, chest against my face. Maybe I’ll pass out again.

“Jean?”

“Hm?” He returns to his original position, cradling my back. “Lean back now.”

I do and it’s just like yesterday, except our positions are switched. “Your hair is so pretty.”

“Oh.” A wavering smile takes over him. “Really?”

==> parfum d’etoiles, ichiko aoba

He leans in when I beckon and lets me brush away the silky-soft strands that fall onto his face, gently pressing them back into the main mass of his hair with the backs of my fingernails. His hair. How long have I dreamed of doing this? Seeing the way it catches the sunlight to flare a molten gold during sluggish fall afternoons at my dorm, how the wind picks up strand after delicate strand as we walk through campus on the way back from the cafe, the way it always sticks to the back of his shirt when he turns his head. Something as unreachable as the reciprocation of my love. And yet… “So beautiful.”

He dips his head a little so I focus on his mini-ponytail—

“Ponytail,” I muse out loud, grinning. “Horseface and ponytail.”

At this he looks up indignantly, undoing all my work. Betrayal weighing on his brow. “You did not.”

“Oh—” my finger, entranced and with a mind of its own, traces his hairline, “—but I did.”

He scoffs as if it’s the only thing he can do and turns his head to the side, not hiding the heat that shows and radiates from his face as I stroke the strands over his ear. He eases down onto his elbows on either side of my body and he plays with his hands on my stomach. My thumb never leaves his skin, tracing his delicately shaved beard from the curve of his jaw down to his chin, and I use this position to pull his face toward me. Feeling his pulse, feeling the way the soft skin under his jaw moves as he swallows, inhales, opens his mouth with a small wet sound and speaks right into me.

“You’re beautiful.”

I want to cry.

Despite feeling like death, despite the mouthbreathing, despite the greasiness of my hair…

Jean’s gaze is unveiled, blazing with all the fondness and revere previously hidden and locked away, an unsurmountable number of words press-printed and bleeding onto millions upon millions of honeyed pages but never bound, never shut away from the sunlight and the sky and the polished wood shelves, blowing, scattering in the wind. I just might wither away under it all if I wasn’t looking back at him with just the same intensity. Locked in a silent competition neither of us will ever win.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

“Jean,” I say ever so lightly, only forming the shape of his name of his tongue as I exhale.

He blinks a few times and the mattress tilts as he reaches under the frame and pulls up his sketchbook, settling on the edge of the bed. It’s about the size and shape of a placemat, bound in black leather with a stiff metal coil binding it together. He flips through the heavy cream pages with experienced ease, squishing the flesh of the hand that holds it open. I can stare at his hands all day. The hairs that sprout near the wrists, the thick, sturdy fingers, the laced veins that bulge when he brings them down to his side but are always, always visible, the way the skin folds and creases at the joints, the white-hot tendons that decorate his knuckles and poke up when he flexes, the soft and jagged way he cuts the white of his fingernails, the warmth, the padding of his palms. The power that lies dormant in his muscles under every gentle movement. I want them forever to hold and cherish and cuddle. Among other things.

He finally finds the page he’s looking for and he folds the sketchbook in on itself on its metal hinge to flatten it. He taps his fingers against the back, a soft pitter-patter like rain.

“Are you going to show me?”

Face contorting slightly, he says, “it’s not finished.”

“So?”

“It doesn’t… exude you.”

I smile. “Exude?” But he’s lost in his mind, lost in the lines interwoven in shapes and shadow on the page that are supposed to constitute a greater picture.

“Qu’est-ce que…” he mutters, not to me, not to anyone. Without looking he picks up a pencil from the nightstand and lays a few more strokes onto the paper. The graphite scratches the bumpy composite, seemingly at random at first, but Jean’s movements soon fall into a rhythm. Every once in a while his eyes flicker from the page to me and I meet him every time.

I don’t know how long we sit here, soaking in the comfortable silence, but he eventually breaks the illusion by leaning back and swiping the eraser crumbs off. “I don’t like it,” he says with a note of finality.

I’m almost asleep. “Mm— show me.”

“No…”

His face disappears behind my hand, which makes a pinching motion. “Jeaaan.”

He sighs; reluctantly, he offers the whole book to me and stares through the window (curtains still drawn). I flip it over to see and—

I blink away the gunk that doesn’t exist and hold the page back so it catches the dim light from the hallway better. “Did you just do this?”

It’s… me. It’s me in his bed, hair splayed, eyes half-lidded yet still staring through the page, features lit from on one side and bleeding into the shadowy graphite at the other. Pinned up and immortalized in this very moment by his own hands, every stroke with a purpose.

“I know, the composition is off and the lines aren’t harmonizing.”

“Harmonizing? Jean, this is beautiful.”

“Hah?” He clambers to the empty spot beside me so we can both look. “No, look, I messed up right…” he points with the worn-down eraser end of his pencil. “There. And there, and—”

I swat it away. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Don’t you realize how good this looks? I mean—” holding the portrait up next to my own face, I smile. “See?”

“Not the same,” he groans. “Everything’s—”

I stick the side of my finger against his teeth and he recoils into the pillow. “What!” He pries me off, gripping my forearm with virtually no pressure. “What was that for?”

“Whatever you think, I love it.” I clear my throat. “Thank you so much, Jean. I mean it.”

He pauses. “Well, I’m— I’m glad you like it. Expect more.”

“More?”

His eyelids flutter; hesitantly, he takes some of my hair and twirls it in his finger. “I can’t help myself.”

Some of the heat in my core rises to my face, but it’s okay, so I don’t bother turning away.

“One day I’ll get good enough to draw you for real.”

Draw me for real? As far as I’m concerned, he’s always drawing me, conjuring up a little image of me in his mind every time my name is brought up. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.

“Are you ready for soup now?”

“I’m tired. I don’t wanna move.”

“When did I say you have to move?”

It’s easy for him with his stupidly long limbs to climb over me and stand again. He takes the bowl on the nightstand and hooks his chair with his foot, dragging it forward before sitting. “It’s still a bit warm, okay?” he says, stirring the mixture.

“That looks good.”

He looks up briefly to smile. “Thanks. I found a recipe online.”

“You should get into cooking.”

He shrugs and holds up the spoon, bowl close underneath to prevent spillage. “Aah.”

I take it. The metal clicks uncomfortably against my teeth but the food is warm and good. “This is good,” I declare when my mouth is empty. “Do you really not cook that often?”

“Nope. Aah.”

I chew and swallow. “When do I get my pill?”

Jean looks like he’s choking for a second. “Uh— what, do you want it right now?”

“Sooner the better, I guess.”

He blinks, then takes the package of ibuprofen from the nightstand and unwraps a pill, puts the box away, and pinches it in his hand like it’s a precious stone. “Are you sure?”

I raise an eyebrow and hold my hand out. He stares at it, dumbfounded.

“What’s that for?”

“The pill?”

His mouth opens and closes. “Oh.” He gently places the pill onto my waiting palm. “Right.”

“What were you thinking?”

He licks his lips. “Nothing.”

I pop it dry and it hits the back of my throat before disappearing forever. Jean cringes. He’s staring at the ground, knees pushed together to hold the bowl, slightly too big for the chair he’s sitting on.

“Jean.”

“Yeah?” He perks up.

“If you want to kiss me, you can.”

He tenses around the bowl. “No! That’s…” A weak chuckle rolls in his torso. “Uh. Good to— good to know.”

I smile as silence falls between us again and the room teems with potential. He feeds me in silence, gentler with the spoon this time, pushing it against my soft bottom lip and inserting just the right amount not to hit my throat, tilting it up during the exit so my upper lip rides the gentle curve of the metal and scrapes out the meal. Everything with a calculated and smooth movement, as if feeding me is an art.

He really is good with his hands.

Now he has a tissue and holds it up as if asking for permission. I nod; he leans in to wipe some off my face, a soft furrow in his brow, biting his lip. Starting at the corner, pressing into the supple skin and making his way inward, he easily catches the mess, folds the tissue, and does the other side. He finishes off with a small dab and crumples the it, obscuring it completely in his fist. Not moving back.

“Can I have some tea?”

==> i was only temporary 2 u, my head is empty

Silently, he stretches to take a mug off the nightstand, and just like before, pushes the rim against my lip. I tilt back and drink; it’s sweet, almost head-swimmingly so, and liquid smooth.

“Mmh.”

He puts the mug down and one-handedly stashes it back to its spot. Some of the drink had dribbled from the corner of my mouth to my chin and drips onto the sheet, forming a small, dark blotch on the white. When I glance back up, so does Jean, and we lock eyes.

Unreadable.

I don’t notice him get closer until he’s on me, trapping me against the headboard, tracing the path of the tea to the corner of my lips with his own. Not satisfied, he brushes against the other side of my lip and the tip of my nose before stopping at eye level. Taking in a breath before ever so slowly inching forward, sealing off my air. My eyes slip closed.

It’s different this time. He’s hesitant, waiting for me to make the move, so I do, tracing the crescent of his warm, plump lip with my tongue — god, how long have I wanted this? How long have his lips stared back at me? — in an attempt to crack him open, without pattern but with hidden rhythm, just like his pencil. He tastes like overly sweet tea.

His fingers caress my jaw and tangle into my hair as mine do the same, tracing the scrub of his beard, pulling out the hairtie and tossing it before taking the impossibly silken strands in greedy fistfuls, making my blood go loose and coat my guts in something inexplicable that almost makes me lose my focus. The air from his nose tickles my skin and finally he gives, breaking the dam, exploring the surfaces I have to offer as if mapping it out for later with a painful, cautious leisure. Never stopping, always movement: the bristles of his chin occasionally scraping against mine; his hands languidly falling down my neck, pushing me back against the pillows; mine, seizing his collar, pulling as a desperate indication to remove it and to come closer; the dip of the bed as he obliges to the latter, knees locking me in place. As if I would move, despite my racing pulse, despite my heart threatening to slip out of its bony confines and tear my burning lungs—

==> might start singing - sped up, sheldon charlot

The metallic sound of a key grating into the keyhole. Like deer in the headlights we freeze as the key turns, the lock disengages, and the front door swings open.

Jean looks like someone just shot at him; blindly, I swat at the thick muscle between his neck and shoulder until he awkwardly rolls off, ramming into the nightstand with his head in the process. The bowl and mug and clock rattle, nearly drowning out his pained grunt. He lands sitting on the ground and I sit up ramrod straight.

“Jean? That you?”

We peer at each other through the dark, thoughts unspoken, yet still understood. My pulse is on overdrive, for a different reason now.

Connie!

His footsteps get louder as he stomps down the hall; I pull the blanket up (to cover what, exactly?) as Jean shoots onto his feet — slamming his shoulder against the nightstand again — just as his roommate’s shadow fills the doorway to Jean’s room.

“Ugh, you’re gonna kill your eyes, man.” A blinding light pierces as Connie flips a switch. “Can I borrow your charger? I left mine— I left…”

When my eyes adjust, Connie’s staring into me under Jean’s arm. He looks between the two of us as the pieces fall together in his head like a game of jelly Tetris and it’s evident when he figures it out, when all the rows are cleared and the trumpets blare and the screen flashes with confetti, when a grin that’s all too Connie takes over his face. “Oh. You guys have been real naughty while I was gone, huh?”

I start to speak but Jean’s faster. “What are you on about? I was just giving her food.”

Connie raises an eyebrow, skeptical. At the obviously empty bowl, the ruffled covers, our heaving chests and wrinkled clothes, Jean’s hair which is uncharacteristically roughed up and messy and falling all over his eyes. “Yeah.” He smirks at me. “Food.”

Jean swallows.

“Connie,” I say slowly as the last taste of Jean slips away, “you won’t tell Sasha, right?”

“I dunno.” All too gleeful, he leans against the wall, tapping it as if waiting for something. “Will I?”

“You can use Jean’s car for a week if you don’t.”

Said person twitches. “Huh!?”

No stranger to the bargain, Connie narrows his eyes. “A month.”

“Two weeks or no deal.”

“Fine, but I get to decide which days.”

“Wait, when did I—”

“Deal,” I say, cutting Jean off. I shoot him an apologetic look as Connie caws in victory.

“Hell yeah! Suck it!” He points at the owner of said car. “She’s all mine now, Jeanboy!” Then he points at me. “I love you and my lips are sealed forever, okay? This is our little secret. Woo!” He skips down the hallway and picks something up with a jingle before the door opens and shuts and all is quiet.

At a sloth’s pace, Jean reaches for his pants pocket. “My keys aren’t here.”

“I’m sorry, Jean.”

He slumps, leans his butt against the bed, and turns to me like a war widow, voice barely a whisper. “It had to be done.”

“Your car will be fine.” I try to undo some of the damage thoughtlessly wrought upon his hair, smoothing it out. “It’s only two weeks.”

“Knowing Connie, he’s going to spread it out over two years,” he sighs, staring at the wall. “You know he likes to eat in it, right?”

Saying nothing, I keep stroking his hair, tracing my his scalp with my fingertips, and he leans in to my shoulder.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

“Connie?” Sasha says when he pulls up outside the store, hiding her fingers from the bitingly cold air by shoving them in her coat pockets. “What are you doing here?”

“More importantly, what’s he doing in Jean’s car?” Eren adds, in the process of pulling up his hair into a bun. “Did you kill him, Connie?”

“I struck a bargain,” Connie says smugly. “You guys want a ride, or what?”

Sasha blinks. “You saw them together and they agreed to let you use Jean’s car as long as you kept quiet about it.”

“Nuh-uh!” the driver bursts as Eren nods.

“Adds up.”

Connie’s grip around the wheel tightens. He won’t— he can’t let his dream ride slip from his hands so quickly. “Sasha, no! I just let him use— I mean, he let me use his car if I did all his laundry for a month.”

“Really?” his best friend muses.

Frantic, he nods.

She scowls. “Don’t give me that crap, Constance Springer.” Trace puffs of steam appear at her rapid spew of words. “You don’t even know how to do laundry.”

“I do so! I Youtubed it!”

“Bullshit.”

“Woman, nuh uh!”

“Can I go now?” Eren drawls, almost immediately drowned out by their combined bickering. He sighs, putting the finishing touches on his bun, and traces the leafy skyline.

So they really did get together. He didn’t think Jean had it in him. Casually, he taps his pocket, the bunched-up lanyard underneath.

Sasha had grilled him constantly though the store as he did his rounds, even following him to the employee-only area. Hell, she stood outside the bathroom waiting for him when he tried to hide for his break. There was just no escaping her.

“What did he buy?”

“Like, soup stuff.”

“What’s the first thing he said?”

“My name?”

“Did he mention her?”

“No.”

“Do you have a receipt?”

“No.”

And so on and so forth. She asked for Jean’s grocery haul maybe a hundred times, and he answered every time with the same mind-numbing ingredient list. Every. Single. Time.

A small smile lights his face. He didn’t tell her everything, though.

As much as he wanted to mention Jean’s embarrassingly poor attempt to hide the box with his body from Eren’s prying eyes at the checkout, he thought better of it, because then she’d really go off the hook. That, and he wants Jean to owe him. He covers his mouth before the others notice his growing smile at the memory replaying in his mind. Condoms? Really? Does Jean not trust Connie enough to use some of his? More importantly, does he really think he’ll be using them? Truly?

Eager beaver.

“Don’t tell them, okay?” Connie says, already defeated. “Or else they’ll take this car away…”

“Don’t you realize, Connie? It doesn’t matter who I tell because soon enough they’ll be walking around in public holding hands and all that. So your leverage is basically null.”

He stares forlornly at the little Sanrio charm hanging from the rearview mirror. “When did you get so good at this?”

“That’s just common sense.”

Sighing, he rests his forehead on the steering wheel. “Well,” he says without looking up, “you guys wanna go for a long drive?”

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

writing confession scenes kill me in every physical metaphorical and metaphysical way you can imagine. thats some psychic damage right there. despite that, i love writing

seems we cant escape the inevitable kiss scene! i tried to switch it up this time. not a huge fan of recurring plot and all but i think in circles sometimes. like a dying fruit fly

about that epilogue -- i dont think i'll be employing those for a while. or maybe i will. who knows?

masterlist part 1 - two ibuprofen

[softxsuki]

Hello! Could I request a letter for your Valentines Day Letter Event? I’d like one with Pro!Hero Bakugou with Pro!Hero Fem Reader. Her quirk is Storm (like the marvel character) and she can affect the elements (earth, wind, fire and air) . I’d like if he called me ‘pretty girl or baby girl' in the letter! We’re not in an established relationship, but everyone is sure he has a crush on me since we work so well together.

Tone/Genre: adoration and angst to fluff (ish) where he apologizes and confesses his feelings after i told him friend that he doesn't treat me like i am his type.

Location: we live near each other and we're around each other often; we basically work in the same office. i went to work to see the letter and other trinkets left on my desk.

Other info: We work super well together and i also like him, but i feel as if i’m not his type that he would go for, so i hope he would explain how dumb it is for me to think that way. He also only allows me to work with him, even though he finds my flirting "annoying" We are also 23. Thank you!”

Bakugou's Confession Letter to His Patrol Partner

This event is now CLOSED, but you can view the masterlist for the other letters here.

| Pairing: Bakugou x Fem!Reader | Genre: Fluff | Post-Type: Letter | Word Count: 600 |

Warnings: slight language bc hellooo he's bakugou

Note: Happy Valentine's Day! Hope you enjoy your letter from Bakugou!

Your mind keeps running over what happened just a few hours ago. Kirishima had heard rumors going around that you and Bakugou were dating, and all you did was laugh him off, saying how Bakugou would never like someone like you.

But had you said too much? Did it make it obvious that you liked Bakugou even if your feelings were most likely one-sided? What if Kirishima told him and Bakugou started avoiding you? You had been up all night overthinking the situation. It didn’t help that today was Valentine’s Day and you felt sad that it would be another year that you were alone, mentally occupied by your grumpy work partner. 

What you didn't know was Bakugou had been listening in on your conversation with Kirishima as you practically gave away that you liked him and he immediately came up with a plan to make sure you knew he felt the same way. Though he was a little dejected that you thought he wouldn’t like someone like you.

The next day you show up at work and see an envelope on your desk with your name on it. Thinking it was a letter from your boss about a mission or something, you casually sit at your desk and open it;

Y/N,

Look, I don’t know why you’d think that I couldn’t like someone like you. What does that even mean? But…I’m sorry if I made it seem like I wasn’t interested in you, because I am. You’re the only idiot in this place I can actually tolerate. You don’t annoy me like the rest of these extras that call themselves heroes, and you’re talented and good at what you do.

So yeah, I do like you and that’s just how it is. If you’re wondering how I know this, shitty hair didn’t say anything to me, even though he should have because he’s my so-called friend and already knew how I felt about you, but I overheard you speaking with him yesterday.

I’m sorry for listening in, but I’m glad I did otherwise I probably wouldn’t be doing this right now. I’m an idiot for thinking your flirting was just you being playful. I thought maybe that’s just something you did to everyone, as much as the thought of that pissed me off. Just flirt like that with me from now on, okay?

So now you know that i like you and I know you like me. What do you want to do about it? If you want to give it a shot, come to my office later and we can make plans for tonight. Might as well take advantage of this shitty ‘holiday’ everyone raves on about.

See you later,

Katsuki.

You look up in the direction of Bakugou’s office which was a few feet away from your desk, your heart racing in your chest. The shades to his office were open as you see his eyes already on you. Butterflies flutter in your stomach, of course you were embarrassed that he had overheard you say that, but it turns out your overthinking was for nothing as the angry blond actually liked you back and was practically asking you out in his own way.

You see him raise a brow, as if questioning your choice. With a small smile, you nod in confirmation, you face getting a little hot before turning back to your computer screen.

You couldn’t believe this was actually happening, yet excitement bubbled up in your stomach at the thought of going out with him later as something more than just coworkers.

Posted: 2/14/2024

[shion-yu]

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me” and “leave me alone” from the prompt list for whoever you feel it fits the most!

Day 25: High fever

Finally getting to this ask with these prompts for @medwhumpmay! Ft. A grumpy sick Alex and Ryo being annoying. Takes place directly before Day 23: Resisting treatment. Thank you so much for the ask @salembutnotthecat, you’re awesome.

Waiting for Alex to admit he’s not feeling well isn’t a fun game. Ryo knows this from experience, because a sick Alex is a pissed off Alex who tends to have a wicked tongue. He tries not to fuss because of this, but sometimes he feels like he has to because Alex simply doesn’t know when to quit.

Like right now - Ryo is absolutely positive that Alex is running a fever. He’s been in a bad mood since yesterday, his face is pale and blotchy, and he keeps closing his eyes as if trying to convince himself to stay upright. Ryo can only watch him for so long without saying something.

They’re walking back to the apartment when Alex finally stumbles. Ryo automatically grabs him by the arm, not that he wasn’t watching carefully for this to happen the entire time.

Alex growls and shoves him away, leaving Ryo resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Leave me alone,” he snaps. “I’m fine.”

“Alex,” Ryo sighs. “Are you seriously gonna keep playing this game?” Alex doesn’t answer and Ryo knows the answer is yes. Alex is a master at this game. He’ll push himself until he either gets better or physically can’t push anymore.

Apparently though, that limit is coming sooner today than usual because the second they reach the apartment elevator, Alex mumbles, “Fuck” and goes down. At least he would have if Ryo hadn’t caught him.

He’s burning up, Ryo realizes regretfully. No wonder. Pushing through a sore throat or a cough is one thing, but a high fever like this is a lot harder. Alex must feel like shit. He snakes his arm around Alex’s back and holds him up. “Almost home, babe,” he says.

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me… I was fine this morning,” Alex mutters. Ryo frowns. A sudden onset of such a high fever isn’t a great sign, and it’s flu season. Alex is notoriously bad at showing up to any of the doctors appointments Shu makes him, and Ryo wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot to get his flu shot this year. He's been so busy with his music after all.

“It’s okay,” Ryo reassures him. “We’re gonna get you in bed and you can sleep and whine all you want from there.”

Alex snorts weakly. He allows Ryo to help him into their apartment though and sits on the edge of the bed as Ryo changes him into pajamas. “What other symptoms do you have?” Ryo asks him.

“My head’s killing me,” Alex says. “I just feel like crap.” At least he’s being honest now, Ryo thinks.

“I think you might have the flu,” Ryo says. “Just stay in bed and it’ll be fine, okay?”

“Fine,” Alex says. His complacency is even further proof of how shit he must feel. Ryo nods and gives his hot face a kiss. “What was that for?” Alex asks, glaring at him.

“Am I not allowed to give you a kiss?” Ryo raises one eyebrow. It’s going to be a long week dealing with a grumpy yet needy Alex, he thinks. “I won’t catch it if it’s the flu,” he guesses Alex’s thoughts. “Unlike you, I remember to go to the doctor.”

“Are you just gonna make fun of me the whole time?” Alex snaps. “Coz if so-“

“No no,” Ryo says quickly. Well, not the whole time. Maybe some of the time. He doesn’t always get such a captive audience in Alex, after all. He holds up the thermometer with a wild grin. “Now open up, or I’ll have to take this another way.”

When Alex punches the device out of his hands, Ryo expects nothing less.

[melodyplucked]

soooooo- i was definitely planning on getting writing done after work today but y'all ... i got both my shots yesterday (booster / flu) and while i did just get back from the office ... i am pretty much down for the count as a result of the reaction ... so i will probably not really be doing anything on any of the attached blogs or my multi unfortunately, since my symptoms have worsened through the day

i love y'all- will try to write tomorrow if i hopefully feel better, and maybe later tonight if my brain is cooperative for it...

[lyak12]

i luved ur recent nat fick! I have an idea for another a fick with scarlett and reader but only if you like this idea

so maybe reader is also an actress and has to film a scene in water but doesnt dry off afterward and ends up getting like the flu/cold and then Scarlett is also a producer and is now all worried because she personally didnt think the scene was necessary for the movie but now reader is sick from it so she takes her back to the trailer to sleep. ♥️

no presure though, luv ur work so much 😙

A/N: Thanks so much anny for this req and I'm sooo sorry that it took me so long write. I know you've send it a while ago.. however I really hope you like it. It's not as long as I would've hoped but I hope it'll do:)

Warnings: non just fluff:)

Unnecessary cold

Word count: 763

Summary: you catch a cold through some unnecessary circumstances

You had been discussing this scene with Scarlett for days already. While she thought it was not necessary for the movie, you were excited to shoot it.

You have been working on this new action movie with Scarlett for a few weeks already, and it has been great so far. It wasn’t often that you got to work on the same set as your wife. While she was playing the other lead role, she was also one of the executive producers.

„Scarlett it’s gonna be so much fun“, was what you told her. However, the water you were meant to crawl out of was freezing. It didn’t bother you too much as you shot the scene, but you never got the time to dry off afterward since you immediately continued shooting.

The next day, you felt the consequences of that. You woke up with your head pounding, your nose completely stuffed up, and your throat felt like you were swallowing razor blades. As you turned around to bury your head into Scarletts chest, you found her side of the bed empty. Lifting your head confused, you could see her side of the bed made as good as she could and find a little note on her pillow.

Hey Baby,

You looked so peaceful, I didn’t have the heart to wake you.

I’m on set already. I see you later.

I love you so much

Scarly xx

You couldn’t help but smile, almost forgetting how miserable you were feeling for a second. Peeling yourself out of bed, you get yourself presentable and make your way to set. In hair and makeup, you realize how bad you were actually looking. You’re so pale that the makeup artist had to put on an extra load of makeup and bronzer just to make you look somewhat healthy. You apologized to her, but she just smiled sadly, giving your shoulder a warming squeeze.

Coughing your way through dressing into your costume, you honestly never hated it more. Your corset like top that used to be only slightly uncomfortable was making it really hard to breathe now.

By the time you finally got to set you were ready to go home already. The fever you were probably running was making you slightly woozy and you just felt miserable. Eventhough you were trying not to show it, Scarlett immediately could tell.

Usually Scarlett rarely broke character however as she saw you she just stopped talking and walked up to you.

“Baby, are you okay?”, she asked, worried. “Scar, what about the scene?”, you asked instead of answering her question before coughing into your elbow harshly. She turned to the director and said “See I told you that scene yesterday was shit!”. You were surprised to see her getting so angry immediately, but she was very protective over you.

Placing a hand on your stomach over your corset, you try to take a deep breath, only partly successful. She saw that you were struggling, so she said “Come on let’s get you to the trailer. You need to rest”, she said, but you wouldn’t just give in. “But what about the schedule? I’m okay”, you say but are immediately wrecked with coughs again. “Oww”, you mumble, grabbing your throat. The cough only making your throat hurt even more. “Yeah, you’re in no state to film. Come on, let's go”, she said and laid a hand on your back, guiding you back to the trailer. You stopped her shortly and turned away from her, sneezing into your elbow.

“Bless you darling”, she said gently and rubbed over your back. Making your way to the trailer, you realize how exhausted you were. Maybe Scarlett was right. You needed to lay down. Once inside, she closed the door and said “Turn around Baby”. You did as you were told, and she opened up your corset, you finally being able to breathe a bit better. Once she helped you get changed, you leaned heavily against her. She kissed your forehead, seeing the caked on makeup on your face. She picked you up and carried to the small bathroom. Sitting you down next to the sink, she grabbed a makeup wipe and gently started to wipe off your makeup.

You were already falling asleep at her gentle touch. Once she cleaned your face with some cleanser, she also applied some moisturizer and carried you to the small bed. You were deeply asleep at that point, and Scarlett couldn’t help but smile at you.

After placing a kiss on your forehead, she whispered “Sleep well, baby. I love you so much”.

[max--phillips]

This weird feeling in my throat is annoying. It had better just be because I talked a lot yesterday at work and not because I’m getting sick. I forgot to consider that because some of my coworkers spend time in schools, they also spend time around kids, who are Petri dishes for various illnesses and cold and flu season is right around the damn corner. I usually get my flu shot around the end of September but maybe I’ll get it next week before the long weekend so I have time to recover

[thewritingsofgavincortez]

A short poem/ writing exercise:

To most today's modern world is nothing but constant and unrelenting chaos. As things are now everyday seems to be a historical event or something else agonizingly on going or concrete. But the day before today was exceptionally boring. It was the weekend so most people were in bed snoring, though the exceptionally mundine day content mood began soaring.

Indeed the day was peaceful, an ex-president had not been shot, the world was not particularly hot, though the woes of global warming were not forgot, the day was exceptionally boring.

People’s phones were not going off, the news was not breaking, all things considered the world was not shaking. Peace and apathy to all mankind, the nirvana achieved was simply sublime, there came a day of dull, without strife, argument or doubt, t’was a day of unimportance and to all humankind, great clarity and tranquility of mind.

From Tokyo to Timbuktu no man or woman on earth came down with some newfangled flu. That day leaders made decent decisions, the politicians did not stir society's pot, no new conflicts had arisen no sir they did not. There came a day when the world could hear it’s own thoughts. Yesterday almost nothing happened, no fakes, creeps or major criminals were caught.

With the wonderful slow none were too eager to reign in tomorrow. It was thought to be impossible. There was simply no way everyone expected the world's problems and troubles to return the next day. Going into the day after marrow, unfortunately for all of us, they’d be here to stay. When the day was over and closing, there was truly no reason to weep, cry or pout, we must take today to reflect on what this was really about. No need to despair or be over and out. Realize what is important, be zen and be stable, a future where we can keep our heads above water may soon be on the table. To see the world for what it truly is or maybe requires perception unclouded, careless, and free. What we had experienced was what life was meant to be. The world continues to be moved, something improbable had happened, need I say more not a day had been such a bore at least not since that particular day back in 1954.

(Sorry if the rhythms off it’s my first time doing this kind of poetry.)

[halibellecter]

An Ounce of Prevention

--

It's flu season on base. Doc didn't really care about it, O'Malley even less so, but Oklahoma is a bit more invasive pushy overbearing stubborn infuriating thorough about preventive care, so on a rotating schedule at both bases, everyone's been shot.

She had put off her own dose until everyone else was out of the woods with their side effects; this new strain that's capable of infecting aliens and humans is so virulent and tenacious that the shot itself is nearly as bad as the sickness, albeit in a controlled environment and for days instead of weeks/months/the rest of the patient's very short and miserable life. It's... well... it's bad.

Out of the collected sim troops, mercenaries, and fellow Freelancers on both bases, she's had ten people faint, four of them with no history of syncope, five or maybe six-- she doesn't know how to count the AI version-- cases of severe nausea and vomiting, and upwards of a dozen severe fevers that set off biochip alarms and even got them a call from Command to ask if they needed to send someone from Recovery. The offer was appreciated, but ultimately declined, as the agent in question was being hosed down in a cold shower and given as many antipyretics as safely possible. You're not supposed to take them for a post-vaccine fever, but at this point, knocking down his immune response by reducing the fever was a smaller concern than the hundred and fourteen degree temporal artery reading and the possibility of severe brain damage. (Wyoming is fine, but his accent appears to have boiled off.)

Add in to that the migraines, regular headaches, bad-but-not-severe fevers (miserable anyway), and general malaise, and it's a really good thing the only threats to look out for in Blood Gulch are the guys on the other team. She's started more IVs and given more fluids and meds in the past week than in a month of typical missions. And yesterday, she finished out treatment for everyone else, did another round of checkups to make absolutely sure everyone was in great shape, then double checked again to be safe. Late that evening, in the medbay, she shot herself.

She can vaguely remember thinking, huh. That wasn't so bad. But then for most people it started after a few---

It was close to three AM when she woke up in the floor, dazed and dizzy, ears ringing. Groaning, she set her alarm and curled back up, face against the blessedly cool tile floor. Not sanitary, but she was a little too feverish to care.

Two hours later, at zero five hundred, the alarm went off, dragging OK out of a fever dream that may eventually require trauma therapy. She managed to get out of the floor, cleaned up, changed, and settled at her desk, but there's no energy left for anything else. Sounds are muffled as if they're underwater, overlaid with echoing ringing. It feels like her bones are melting. But as long as no one needs her, and no one gets sick, and there's no reason for her to have to move, talk, think, or breathe, she'll be fine.