#sick fic my beloved

[nomazee]

putting myself in a straightjacket and chains and submerging myself in a tank of water like an escape artist just to stop myself from writing another fic that has mild sickness as the main plot point

[kentofic]

a bite-sized nanami x f!reader sickfic as i recover from a cold of my own 💖 suggestive but no smut

You give a hearty sniffle, the covers tucked up to your chin as you huddle under the warm blanket, shivering. You sigh. You hate being sick. You’ve been laid up for the past day with a fever, stuffy nose, and scratchy throat. There’s no end in sight yet—but, to your luck, your sweet husband has stayed home to play nurse for you. And you do love being taken care of by him.

“Kento,” you call out, your voice hoarse, cracking around the edges. You cringe at the sound.

You don’t see how Kento halts in the next room, warmth pooling low in his stomach. You have no idea how deeply, how instantly, it affects him—the sound of your voice, pitched low and throaty like this. He reminds himself for the hundredth time that you need rest, that he has no right to jump your bones when you’re sick and exhausted. No matter how infuriatingly sexy you sound. He clears his throat, trying to gather himself.

“Yes, darling?” you hear from the living room. His tone betrays nothing.

“Can you bring me some water please? I’m all out.”

“Sure, be right there.”

You stare at the ceiling, slightly dizzy, as your husband bustles about in the kitchen. Soon he’s by your bedside with a glass of cool water, a small plate, an apple, and a paring knife.

He guides the glass into your hands, watching approvingly as you take a long sip. Then he picks up the apple and the knife and begins peeling it. You watch him with a smile, your cheeks and lips flushed rosy with fever.

“How did I ever deserve such an attentive husband,” you murmur, your voice like warm gravel. Kento’s hands falter for just a second. He clears his throat and resumes cutting small slices of the fruit. He feels the beginnings of a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

“Hush. You know I love taking care of you.”

Your chuckle is like a soft burble of water, punctuated at the end by a sniff. Kento holds a piece of apple up to your mouth, which you dutifully open for him. He pokes the piece between your lips, his thumb grazing your bottom lip as he withdraws his hand.

“Mm, tastes good,” you hum, low and soft, around the mouthful of fruit. The sound goes straight to Kento’s groin, and he coughs to dislodge the breath that catches in his throat. You peer up at him, concerned.

“You’re not getting sick too, are you?”

“I’m fine,” he assures you, smoothing your hair from your forehead. You catch his wrist and tug, trying to pull him closer, even weak as you are in this state. He leans forward to humor you. You scrutinize him with eyes soft and glassy from fever.

“You’re flushed, Kento. Are you sure you don’t have a fever?” you worry, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. He lets out a soft sigh at the contact, his eyes fluttering for a moment.

“I’m not sick, sweetheart. Just guilty of loving my wife too much,” Kento murmurs. He pulls your hand from his forehead to place a soft kiss to your palm. You shudder at the tender brush of his lips on your skin, made extra sensitive from fatigue and fever.

“Do you love her enough to give her a kiss, even though she’s full of germs?” you wheedle, eyes crinkling at the edges as you smile at him. He chuckles as he laces his fingers with yours.

“I love her enough to give her much more than a kiss,” he smirks. You shiver again, this time not from fever, and you clench your thighs together as Nanami traces the softness of your bottom lip with his thumb. You let out a breathy sigh as he noses into your cheek before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“But, as enticing as you are, you need your rest, love.”

You pout, letting out a disappointed sound as Kento pulls back. His gaze is soft but firm.

“Don’t whine. Get well first, then I’ll lavish you with all my saved up affection. I promise,” he says, his voice hushed, as he presses a final kiss to the top of your head.

You chew your lip before giving him a reluctant nod. You snuggle back under the covers, your eyes slipping shut. You’re filled with the determination to heal now, if you’re to get what you want out of your husband.

Kento watches you as your breathing evens out, your brow relaxing as a feverish sleep pulls you under once again. He sits there for a while, just admiring you—the way your hair splays out on the pillow, your warm cheek smushed so cutely against it, your lips parted as a soft, sleepy moan escapes you.

Kento stands suddenly. He makes a beeline for the bathroom, his pants tight. He chastises himself as he swallows the urge to rip off your blankets and keep you warm another way.

[ryuubff]

shuake and january weather and clinginess

[lupeloto]

galladrabbles “loser baby - hazbin hotel”

a prompt from @depressedstressedlemonzest for @galladrabbles this week!! i used the line from the song “when your whole existence seems fucking hopeless” it’s an angsty one but i had fun

— — — — — —

ian’s knuckles ache with each grip on the pillow. his mind races with images of mickey’s desperate attempts to help him, quick to nudge him when his brain goes quiet for even a second. goosebumps spread quickly over his body as the air gets colder, but he makes no movement. he’s stuck, reliving the missed calls that deepened his emptiness to nearly unbearable measures. his whole existence seems fucking hopeless until the goosebumps that paint his skin ignite a different sensation, a pleasant one as a warmth takes him over.

“sorry i’m late.” ian relaxes, a tiny glimmer of hope flushes back.

[inaflashimagine]

Did someone say a Nagumo fic? I would like to see it 🤲🏽

ask and you shall receive (pasting 2k below bc i'm unhinged)

–

You’re considering poisoning the vice principal of JCC.

It’s still in the planning phase, of course. But the true challenge, if this impossible task were to ever be achieved, would lie in the execution portion. Before leaving the airtight rooms of the laboratories, all students in the poisons department must properly discard any concoctions they’ve made in the fume hood (and any other chemicals that require extra care in their disposal are handled by the 24/7 toxic waste team). As many faculty in the department often repeat during their classes, the greatest poisons a student could ever make are arrogance and ignorance. For that reason alone, anything made for off-campus assignments is safely stored by lab managers in the school’s securely locked freezer until they must be given out.

Not to mention that every poisons professor also practices their due diligence by constantly updating the school chemicals inventory, which includes keeping track of the approved materials and poison recipes that students can take out of an extensive library of hazardous reagents, toxic substances, and highly coveted venoms.

That doesn’t mean that students haven’t tried to outsmart faculty or find a loophole in the system. Third-year Tanaka Kaito thought sneaking out with the tiny glass bottle containing his newest poison inside his mouth was a smart choice; and it might’ve been, if he hadn’t tripped over the lab assistant’s foot, which, coincidentally, happened to be in his way. Peers smarter than him have managed to avoid ruptured intestines or chemically burnt mouths, but considering these individuals–of which there are many–still fail and end up being expelled, stealing such precious items is not a risk many in your department are willing to take.

You understand the delicate position JCC is placed in when students break the institutional rules; since the JAA requires any poisons that are used by assassins or during non-educative assignments to be manufactured by those with a toxicology license, it makes sense that the JCC would adopt the most stringent guidelines to avoid a bad reputation.

Still. It doesn’t hurt to dream–or at least, you can’t get expelled for wishful thinking.

Besides, you have to find some way to pass the time in this dreadful class.

“Who are you thinking about killing this time?”

You blink, your eyes falling on the person who interrupted your delusions. The one who makes this class even more agonizing than should be tolerable.

“What makes you think I want to kill someone?” Flipping over the pages of your notebook to a blank one, you begin to scribble today’s course topic and can’t help but note the irony of you desperately wanting Ito-sensei to enter the room so he can start your least favorite class.

The Art of Espionage: For Intermediate Learners

From your periphery, you can see your dark-haired classmate leaning back into his desk chair as he deftly twirls a pocket knife in his hand, unfazed that all of his weight is balanced by one precious metal leg. He laughs lightly at your question, but it’s difficult to catch any mirth that follows it. “I always assumed only assassins carry bloodlust, but you proved me wrong. Though I guess I should’ve seen it coming.” His smile widens, a hint of smugness tugging the corner of his lips as he points the blade toward you like he’s just pointing a finger in your direction and not a potentially lethal weapon. “The ones in the poisons department do love holding grudges.”

You don’t know what others see in Nagumo. Sure, he’s objectively attractive–it would be stupid to argue that fact, and you’re not blind. And yeah, he’s one of the top second-year candidates in the intelligence-gathering department (though there are rumors of him wanting to transfer to the assassin program)–that’s not a surprise for someone who comes from a prominent family of spies, even if it is quite funny that the tidbit is well-known despite everything else about him being shrouded in the largest cloud of mystery…

…but any of those appealing characteristics seem to be thrown out the window the moment he begins to talk. And boy, does he talk.

“See, if I didn’t know any better,” he speaks up, yet again, eyes closed into half crescents as he cheerily jokes, “that annoyed look on your face says you wanna kill me!”

“Well, if you must know, you’re the third on the list. The first person is the vice principal for not switching me into another class.”

Each semester all JCC students must enroll in one class that falls outside the curriculum for their major. This is to ensure that their graduates are competent in all skills that they may need to succeed on the field or in the lab, even if it is unlikely they’d employ every skill on a daily basis. Since the best assassins, spies, weapons makers, and poison experts in the world are adept at rapidly adapting to different situations, it makes sense that the JCC would implement such a rule for their students. But that doesn’t mean you have to enjoy following said rules.

Your first semester at JCC wasn’t too bad. Technically, only third years can matriculate in poisoning classes–though there are a few introductory courses and practicums you can take starting your second year–so you’ve grown well accustomed to enrolling in classes that are beyond the usual chemistry and physics gambit. And since all students are allowed to rank their top choice electives, you were fortunate enough to get the History of Weapon Craft and Creation (considered one of the easier electives for those outside the weapons fabrication department). 

The semester after, you barely passed Firearm Handling & Defensive Training, but at least that class improved your aim with the laser guns in the cafeteria, meaning getting less of those horrid JCC bowls. Yet your luck quickly ran out at the start of the second year, as this semester you now find yourself to be the only poisons department student in a room filled with good-looking, downright intimidating, and incredibly sharp intelligence-gathering students.

You have no idea how you were even allowed to take a class with prerequisites that are nested in the intelligence-gathering department, but your grievances fell on the deaf ears of administrative staff who didn’t even apologize for the scheduling mishap. (Then again, these are the same people who don’t bat an eye when students in the assassin department are gravely injured and even die during an assignment or in the middle of class. It’s no shocker that the second-year class size has considerably dwindled from last year.)

With all other courses being full, your choice was to stick to this option or switch to Martial Arts & Tactical Hand-to-Hand Combat for Advanced Learners. Even if you can’t avoid your fear of looking like an idiot in front of Japan’s future spies, you can at least evade the terror of literally dying by the hands of the country’s strongest assassins-in-training (you heard Sakamoto Taro was a killing machine, a fact you would be happy to simply believe rather than test out for yourself).

However, your earlier fears have now evolved into a living nightmare after Ito-sensei announced that everyone would be assigned a partner to work on assignments together throughout the semester. You didn’t know who Nagumo was until your roommate Asami gasped at the mere mention of him (which isn't even his full legal name! What is he, Prince?). Banging your head against the wall might be a more pleasant experience than having to hear her complain–for the umpteenth time–that you get to learn from such a ‘genius’.

Admittedly, it's only been a few weeks into the semester, but you're still having trouble identifying the genius part.

“Wow, how scary! I’m terrified!” Nagumo sounds anything but after hearing your empty death threat. “Who’s the second?”

“None of your business.”

“Aw, don’t be like that! Do I know them?”

You think about it for a second, drawing the potential lines forming the network before shaking your head. “Well, actually, yes. Because congrats, you’ve just been bumped up to #2.”

He grins at that, big eyes crinkling. “See, now that’s a better response! But wait, am I third–”

“Second, now…”

“–right, second on the list because I forgot to do my part of the presentation? I swear I meant to get to it, but I got carried away with an outside mission.”

Genius? More like a lazy piece of shit, you think bitterly, eyes squinting at him to scrutinize what he’s hiding under those large dark eyes and that apparently innocuous grin. Of course, because you suck at intelligence-gathering, you come up with nothing other than a pathetic, “Stop lying, you sucky liar.”

The corners of his lips droop a bit further down than usual, but he still manages to adopt that customary smile of his and waits for another beat. Fully aware that the silence and staring make you uncomfortable.

“About the mission or getting the work done?”

“Both.”

“You’re funny!”

“See what I mean about the lying?”

The chair he’s sitting on instantly lands on all four, the harsh sound of pegs scratching the linoleum floors making you startle against your better judgment. One hand rests on his chin as he raises a brow at you, clearly amused. “But really, why would I lie about either part? If it makes you feel any better, I’ll make sure we get top marks on today’s presentation.”

You only have enough time to offer your exasperated sigh as an answer, since Ito-sensei finally walks in and announces the start of today’s presentations.

“Good afternoon everyone, apologies for my tardiness as a meeting went over. In preparation for your first exam next week, each group will be reviewing a different fundamental skill for carrying out espionage. First tactic: seduction.”

When you hear your name and Nagumo’s being called out, your suddenly heavy legs slowly drag their way to the front of the room, already anticipating to make a fool of yourself with your half-assed presentation on how to seduce a target, a skill all these students staring at you in boredom more than likely have performed a thousand times before.

Straightening your posture, you’re ready to begin your long unnecessary speech on the purpose of seduction until Nagumo yawns. Loudly.

The action has you momentarily pause, soft tittering spreading throughout the classroom until you narrow your eyes at your beaming partner, clear your throat, and continue.

“Seduction can be used as a weapon when the person employs the technique to obtain an objective, as seen in–"

“This demo we’re about to show!” Nagumo cuts in, waving his hands animatedly as if about to introduce a mesmerizing performing act. Your confusion only continues to grow as he sharply turns on his heel to face you, bewildered to see that his usual bright smile has been replaced with a more coquettish expression on his face.

“What are you–”

“The word seduction means to ‘lead astray’ in Latin. Doing such a thing means you have to observe your target’s every move. How they move. How they look at you. At others. At their surroundings.” Every step he takes forward means you take one step back. Until you find yourself hitting the wall, your eyes widening with how cold it feels against the back of your neck. “How they react. How they respond to you.”

He doesn’t even have you pinned, his arms laying idly by his sides while you dumbly acknowledge you can easily escape right now. But for some reason, you feel trapped under that curious gaze, the upward quirk of his lips sending a weird shiver up your spine.

“Catch the changes in their body language.” He tilts his head, and when strands of his shaggy black hair tickle your cheek you fully realize the distance–or lack thereof–between you two. “Are they fearful? Or are they open to receiving your advances? Do they approach you just as eagerly?”

Since when did he get so close?

You gulp when his hand dances over your hip while the other outstretched one reaches your face, and you hate how your head instinctively leans toward the motion. It becomes harder to stand your ground while your gaze flits back and forth between the inked numbers on his fingers and those half-lidded eyes, a darkness so rare with how inviting it seems.

As he delicately brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear you wonder if he can hear the frantic hammering of your heart against your chest. Even if he can’t catch it, you can tell by the slight way his eyes glisten that he certainly knows, and maybe even relishes, the effect he has on you–the way you’re futilely trying to snap out of the reverie you’re currently in, drunk in the smell of whatever woodsy fragrance he decided to wear today mixed with the sickly sweet scent of that caramel candy he was chewing on earlier.

Well, fuck.

“And it’s in that moment, when their mind is distracted and more focused on you than their own thoughts”–his nose brushes yours, and your breath hitches as all you can do is close your eyes–“is when you make your move.”

You feel your lungs deprived of air the second he presses you deeper into the wall, one hand still on your hip as he uses the other to swiftly grab a piece of paper tucked in the back pocket of your pants.

A sharp inhale is what returns you to reality, your jaw slackening upon seeing him retreat and wiggle the neatly folded piece of paper he stole from you.

“Nagumo,” you nearly growl as you feebly attempt to get it back from him, which only seems to get him more excited as his face breaks out into a full-blown grin and he waves the item higher with that freakishly long arm.

“Should I unfold it? Reveal to all the secret recipes?”

“Do it and you die!”

“Is that a joke or a threat?” As if he’s some film actor breaking the fourth wall, he turns his head toward your classmates and winks at them. “You can never tell with poisons students.”

The room erupts into laughter.

If only you did lace that paper with poison! You’re mentally preparing to fight (and definitely lose) to him when Ito-sensei’s booming voice keeps you two in check.

“That’s enough, I believe we extracted the main point of your presentation. Either return to your desks or report to the staff room after class for wasting more of our time.”

Both of you don’t need to be told twice–you practically sprint to your desk while an elated Nagumo hums a merry tune from behind, your mind still reeling from what just happened while the chaos in the room dies down and the next group begins their presentation on deception.

How the hell was Nagumo able to do all of that? A presentation you conducted research and rehearsed for around two hours was something he easily accomplished in less than five minutes. And with you as the guinea pig! The thought makes your cheeks burst into flames, but you refuse to hide your face for fear of appearing weaker.

“What did I tell you?” He tosses the paper into your lap–still folded into its original position–as he sends you one of those big smiles that used to give you the creeps but now seems to evoke some other inexplicable feeling. “Top marks!”

The urge to spit out “No thanks to you” is so strong that you have to bite your itching tongue, because that would be a fat lie. So you let out a spiteful ‘hmm’, twitching fingers creasing the folded paper even further.

“Wasn’t it fun teaming up?”

He’s still a bit too close for comfort when he whispers the question, so you lean forward into your desk, trying your best to ignore the buzzing coming from the pest.

“You and I have different definitions of fun.”

“And how would you define it?”

“Not being near you.”

“Guess I’m not the only sucky liar on this team!”

That earns him a glare as you plot several ways to wipe that pleased look off his face. You cross off a few bad ideas that you’re embarrassed your mind even conjured.

“The silent treatment, huh…Didn’t peg you to be the type who does that.”

The eye roll you offer him appears to be a sufficient answer as he lets out a small huff and pretends to listen to his classmates’ project, his bored yawn louder than whatever is being presented. You naively think you’ll be able to endure the remainder of the class without his yapping.

And then he turns to you once again, an impish spark in those large, curious eyes.

“But I just need to ask–what’s written on that piece of paper anyway?”

You press your lips firmly into a straight line and stare at him, bemused that he hasn’t figured it out. He matches your stare, looking at you expectantly. Maybe he’s pretending that he hasn’t read it–with how fast he is, you wouldn’t be surprised if he only needed one or two seconds to skim over the writing.

Then again, you’re the idiot for having a physical copy of your plan to cheat and steal from the school chemicals and rare toxins inventory.

“It’s my formula for a poison that I’ll use to kill you.” Like a psycho, you grin triumphantly upon seeing the way his mouth turns into a tiny shocked ‘O’.

And like the maniac he is, he’s quick to return your smile, though it doesn’t quite reach those indecipherable eyes. “Looking forward to it!”

You’re too proud to admit that you feel the same.

[atac-agent]

hey, y'all!! gimme some Kanej or Zoyalai fanfics to write!!

PS: (totally not down with fever and writing a zoyalai fanfic where nikolai is down with flu-)

Edit: It's Out!! (Stay With Me)

[ughgoaway]

you know how much i love sickfics 😭 and also it’s entirely plausible that girlie always gets sick when school first starts (source: bfs a teacher. also source: kids are germ factories)

anyway yes thinking of matty being very fucking sweet and caring when they’ve only newly started dating 😭 and taking care of girlie (maybe annie had the same thing a few weeks ago so he feels like an expect now lol) and even tho reader insists she’s fine, she’ll get over it with a good nights rest, he refuses to let her do it on her own (he is a proper mother hen now after all)

Oh, the love for sick fics is so real. I yearn to baby this grown man and also to be looked after by him.

Kids are such fucking germ factories, it's CRAZY. All they know how to do is be sick and perpetually sticky. So it's 100% possible you are getting SICK, especially if it's something that's been spreading through your class. 

Annie was out last week, and she's been back 2 days when you start feeling a bit rough. Matty shows up to drop Annie off and notices your red-rimmed eyes and pink nose. He sends Annie in with a kiss on the head and walks over to talk to you properly.

No one is within earshot, so Matty can talk to you the way he wants, “Hi sweetheart, are you feeling okay? You don't look like yourself”  he goes to stroke your arm, but he catches himself before he does.

You guys are together, but the school doesn't know anything yet, so he has to act normal, despite the constant urge to touch you however he can.

You pout and Matty has to fight the smile at how cute you are, “oh wow that's just what you want to hear from your new boyfriend” you tease, smiling and giggling but then launching into a chesty cough from speaking.

“Oh baby, have you got the same thing Annie had? She had the same cough and runny nose,” Matty speaks softly and has to fight the urge to scoop you into a hug. 

“I think I'm starting to, but it's Friday so I  figure I'll just quarantine myself in my flat for the weekend and I'll be fine by Monday.” You wave him off and drop your hand back to your side, but not before brushing yours and Matty’s fingers together subtly. You could see the worry in his eyes and were desperate to reassure him you were okay. 

“Well, Annie is going up to my mum's this weekend so I can come and look after you if you want?” Before Matty can even finish asking, you are shaking your head. 

Even the movement of shaking your head has you feeling dizzy and nauseous and you stumble slightly on the spot, matty of course acts like you had just thrown yourself to the floor and grabbed your arm to steady you. 

“I'm fine, really. Enjoy your weekend off” You smile softly at Matty, but he doesn't look convinced. But before he can protest further, a parent walks over, and he has to rip his hand from your arm. 

////////

It's Saturday night, and Matty hasn't heard from you all day. He had texted asking how you were doing and if you needed anything, but he was met with radio silence. So he took it upon himself to come over. 

He knocks on your door and hears rustling behind it, and soon a pile of blankets emerges, and Matty has to assume you are under there somewhere.

“Hello?” You croak out, and Matty almost crumbles on the spot. He walks in and shuts the door behind him before pulling you into a tight hug.

He feels you breathe him in and your growing smile against his chest, “Matty.” You whisper and burrow closer. You hadn't realised how comforting his scent was, and you already felt more at ease.

But a chesty and slightly wet cough pulls you from the hug, and Matty has to hide his grimace at how rough you sound.

“Oh darling, you sound awful. And you're burning up.” You pout as he feels your forehead, and he then places his palms on your flushed cheeks. 

“Can't be burning up, I'm freezing. And my chest feels heavy” you mumble as you snuggle back into his chest, matty rubs up and down your back - or at least he thinks it's your back. The pile of blankets makes it hard to tell.

It's then he goes into mother hen mode, “Right we need to get you out of these sweaty clothes and into the shower. The steam will help your breathing and hopefully make you feel a bit better.” Matty starts walking to your shower, and you shuffle behind him weakly protesting. 

“Ah ah ah. No excuses, baby. It's time for me to look after you. Now strip.” he reaches into your shower and flicks it on, putting some towels on your radiator to heat them up, ready for when you're done. 

You can't help but tease Matty, hoping he’ll forget about the whole sick thing and just let you sleep for the next 24 hours, “ooh kinky. Yes sir” you faux salute and wink at Matty. But any flirty behaviour was quickly wasted when you started hacking up a lung and shivering at the same time. 

“Don't you ‘yes sir’ me, just let me help you, sweet girl. Please?” his pout and soft eyes get you, and you start shedding blankets, and your shivering intensifies. 

You step into the shower and hiss at the hot water, somehow still shaking even under the scorching water. You look back at Matty, who is watching you with worried eyes.

You decide then and there to give up any dignity you had left and let yourself be looked after. 

“Get in with me?” Matty looks at you suspiciously, and you quickly clarify, “No funny business, I swear. I just want you close to me.” Your sad, quiet voice has Matty shedding his clothes quickly, getting in and pulling you back onto his chest.

You rest your head on his shoulder and let out a sigh at the feeling of him behind you. Matty grabs your body wash and squirts it in his hands, lathering them together before slowly working them over your body. 

It's not sensual or sexual in any way. It's just pure love and care. He moves from your underarms to your torso, slowly working his hands over your aching body. He kneads each section carefully, pulling groans from your cracked lips.

He grabs the shower head to wet your hair and massages shampoo and conditioner into it. He grins at the soft, sleepy smile that comes across your face at the feeling of his fingers rubbing at your scalp.

After 15 minutes and an appropriate amount of steam later, Matty turns off the water and begins bundling you in the towels he had ready. Still, your teeth are chattering as you stand in the bathroom in a pile of 5 towels.

And Matty can't help but feel his heart shatter. He’s never seen you look so small and sad. He can see you're feeling really fucking ill, and honestly, the lack of fighting from you tells him all he needs to know. 

“Go sit on the bed, sweetheart, and I'll be right back” Matty walks you to your bed, and you flop back into the pile of blankets, fighting sleep as you settle in. Matty runs to the front door and grabs the bag he had dropped when he walked in earlier. 

He gets back to you and pulls out his shirt and jogging bottoms from his bag, he knew you'd want his clothes- so he came prepared.

You giggle and lift your arms up, ready for him to dress you. Matty pulls down your towel and averts his eyes from your chest, feeling weird for staring whilst you're so ill. 

You notice and pout, “You don't like my boobs?”

“No no, not that. I like them too much, babe. If I stare too long I'll get hard and it is definitely not the time for that” Matty taps your hips and slides up a pair of his boxers and jogging bottoms over your waist as you grin happily.

Your boyfriend still likes your boobs even when you're gross and ill, and that's good to know.

You flop back on the bed and watch Matty walk around and get into bed, patting the space next to him for you to settle into. 

“Mmm, you'll look at them another time, though?” you say softly, starting to move up the bed.

Matty nods and smiles as he watches you move groggily, sniffling as you're crawling up to him.

“Good idea bringing your clothes for me. I would've stolen yours if not” you say, letting your eyes fall closed.

“Hey this isn't my first time dealing with a sick girlfriend” Matty says, and you immediately frown and open your heavy eyes. 

“Don't wanna think about you being other people's boyfriend. You're my boyfriend,” you groan, settling into your pillows and burrowing into Matty's side. 

He laughs and swings his arm around your shoulders as your legs wind together like ivy intertwining, and you bury your nose in his chest with a happy hum. 

“Don't worry, baby, I'm just your boyfriend. No one else's.” he looks down at you and feels giddy at the soft smile on your face. 

“Mmm mine” You sigh, and Matty presses a kiss to your head as you finally drift off. 

The next day, Matty still wants to play nurse, and you let him quite happily.

[rottindecay]

Hobie Brown x sick!reader

Warnings: very bad British writing tbh (not much but yknow.)

Story: reader is sick and Hobie takes care of them.

A/N: funny how I decided to write this when me myself, is very sick. LOLL

*reblogs, notes n comments are much appreciated >O<!!*

Once you had woken up you felt somewhat dizzy, ears were bothering you and a slight headache. You didn’t think much of it though, you just thought you were feeling like this because you had just woken up. Once you had woke up, Hobie started to wake up as well. A slight groan left his lips as he rubbed his forehead, then sliding his hand down his face before looking down at you and flashing you a sleepy smile.

“Mornin’ luv.”

He craned his neck slightly to be able to kiss your face lovingly.

“Morning.”

You smiled up at him before kissing his cheek. You then started to try to leave the bed so you could get on with your days but Hobie soon pulled you back onto the bed and covering your face and neck in sloppy morning kisses, earning a giggle from you. You guys ended up staying in bed for about 15 more minutes before getting up and doing your guy’s morning routine. Though you finished first then Hobie and being the sweet person that you are, decided to make breakfast for both you guys.

As you heard punk music blasting from the bathroom and hearing Hobie scream along to them, you started on making breakfast. One pan with four bacon pieces and one pan with four eggs. As you started to flip them so one side wouldn’t get more burnt than the other side- that same feeling you had when you woke up was still lingering with you. You tried to shake the feeling off before feeling arms warp around your waist, making you smile. Hobie hugged you tightly from behind, burying his face into your neck for a few moments before pressing his cheek against yours about to say something about how good it smelt before looking at you with his pierced brows furrowed and his head tilted to the side slightly.

“Luv, your face is really hot.”

His deep voice rang in your ears as he brought up one of his large hands to feel your face. It was placed on your cheek, feeling his calloused palm on it for a moment before feeling the back of his hand on it. This process continued on your other cheek and forehead. It felt nice feeling some sort of coldness on your face, closing your eyes for a bit and sighing enjoying the feeling.

“Why don’t you let me finish breakfast, yeah?”

He smiled at you before pecking your forehead then gently taking the spatula and pans away from your hands to finish up what you started.

“Hobie It’s fine- i can do it. I don’t feel that ba-“

You were saying before you were cut off, looking back into his dark brown eyes.

“I said let me do it. You’re quite obviously sick, luv. So just- sit there and look pretty, hm?”

Hobie smirked before turning back to look down at the pan, the bacon and eggs sizzling sounds was bothering your ears slightly but you just sighed as you felt your cheeks get slightly warmer. Was it because you were getting worse? Or because you were blushing over Hobie?

You then started to make you way to the island in your shared kitchen, sitting down with your chin placed on your palm getting slightly dizzy. But as soon as you closed your eyes that felt like just a moment to you, Hobie was already done with breakfast. He placed a plate in front of you, the smell of freshly cooked bacon and eggs hitting your nose as Hobie continued to look at you with slight concern.

“Sleeping again already?”

She chuckled before placing his hand on your head for a minute before opening his mouth again to speak.

“Wait right here, I’ll be back. Just eat your breakfast.”

He soon then started to walk away from you as you took a bite out of your bacon, confused on what he was doing to do before shrugging slightly and turning back to your plate. Your dizziness got slightly worse the more the minutes passed by. You didn’t even felt like eating anymore because of this so you just placed your half eaten bacon back onto your plate and groaning. Your hand reached up to your forehead, leaning against it as your elbow supported the weight of it on the counter with your eyes closed yet again. God you felt so horrible.

After a bit of waiting, you opened your droopy eyes again to see where Hobie had gone off to. It’s been a while since he left, telling you to just eat your meal and as soon as you looked over to your side Hobie was there walking back to you with something in hand.

“Sorry for takin’ so long luv but here- put this in your mouth, under your tongue.”

He told you, reaching out a thermometer to you. You looked down at it as you parted your lips and moving your tongue upwards to the roof of your mouth and soon feeling the cold rod touch the bottom of your mouth. You then closed your lips once more, looking down at the floor as Hobie took your temperature. Everything felt hot and cold to you right now and you just wanted the feeling to stop, it was just getting annoying at the point really.

After a bit more of waiting, you started to hear a beeping sound coming from the thermometer then soon feeling Hobie pull out the rod to look at the numbers. You looked up at him through your lashes, sleepiness taking over you like you hadn’t had a good sleep in days.

“100.1”

Hobie stated as he looked back at you with his thick brows furrowed a bit. He sighed as he placed his free hand behind your head and placing a sweet kiss on your temple before placing the thermometer down on the counter then making his way to the medicine cabinet and taking a bottle of medicine out and a small plastic cup. He read the back of the bottle to check how much of the medicine he has to give you before pouring it into the small cup, making sure it was just right before walking back over to you.

“Luv you gotta finish your food so you could drink this.”

Hobie says as he motions the small cup to you then placing it next to your plate.

“I really don’t want to Hobie. I don’t feel good and if I eat this I swear to god I’m gunna throw up.”

You responded back, putting your hand over your face as your brows furrowed and a slight pout on your lips showed as the dizziness washed over you. You then felt hobies cold hand rub your back gently as he took your hand away from your face so he could get a better look at you.

“Well- try to eat at least half of it so the medicine won’t affect you as much, yeah?”

Hobie tried to encourage you to eat as you side eyed him before groaning, closing your eyes as you let your head drop for a moment before picking it back up to finish at least half of your meal. Despite literally wanting to throw up all your insides as you ate your breakfast, Hobie smiled before kissing the side of your head.

“Atta girl.”

He continued to stay by your side, rubbing your back gently to try to help you at least a little bit in a way as you continued to eat. As Hobie Said- you ate half of your food before wanting to throw in your towel and not wanting to eat anymore because you physically can not take anymore. Despite this- Hobie continued to praise you for doing a good job before handing you the small cup of liquid medicine and motioning you to drink it. You took the cup away from his hands, frowning at the smell of it before looking back at him.

“Take it like a shot. Cmon t’ll help ya feel be’ter.”

A small smile appears on your lips as you looked back down at the small plastic cup. You took a deep breath in before placing it on your lips and swallowing the medicine as fast as you could do you wouldn’t be able to taste it much. A sour look washed over your face as you gave the small cup back to Hobie, looking away from him as you despised the way it tasted in your mouth. You heard Hobie snicker at your reaction before taking the now empty cup away from you before kissing your cheek.

“See? Ya did great luv.”

He smiled, showing you his teeth before taking the cup and your plate and placing the plastic cup in the sink and the plate still filled with half of your uneaten breakfast next to the sink to be dealt with later. There are more serious matters at hand right now than silly dishes.

After that he went back to you, placing his hand on your shoulder as he spoke.

“Cmon, let’s get you back to bed.”

Hobie spoke as you got up from your chair and walking with him back to your shared room. Though the room wasn’t very far from the kitchen, you didn’t want to walk all the way back. You still felt too dizzy to even think straight and the sickness was taking over you quickly. This didn’t go unnoticed by Hobie before soon picking you up bridal style and walking you back to your room. You didn’t have enough energy to protest, and even if you did Hobie would just shoot your protest down immediately saying that it was just full of nonsense.

You leaned your head against his shoulder as you wrapped your arms around his neck, fluttering your eyes closed just until he took you back to your bed. And soon enough you felt you back touch the soft mattress you share with Hobie then soon opening your eyes to look up at him through your heavy lashes. He showed you a lazy smile before kissing the bridge of your nose.

“Let me grab ya a cold towel for that head of yours.”

he said as his hand was touching your head then soon letting go of it as he walked away from you, leaving you on the mattress by yourself. Your brows furrowed as you curled up into a ball as the sickness started to get worse. You just wanted to pass out so you wouldn’t have to feel like this anymore. When you were laying down with your eyes closed, you still felt like the world around you continued to spin as fast as it could. It was fucking horrible. As you continued to drown in how you were feeling at the moment, you felt a hand touch the side of your head to move it slightly so Hobie could place the cold towel on your head as you tried to open your eyes to get a look at him but your eyelids just felt too heavy as you groaned slightly. The feeling of the cold towel felt nice on your heated skin though, making you calm down slightly.

“Awe, my sick baby.” Hobie teased with a slight chuckle leaving his parted lips. “D’ya need anythin’ else, luv?”

he titled his head slightly to the right as he looked down at your closed eyelids. you shook your head no as you pulled the covers up to your nose. Hobie felt his heart squeeze in his chest as he looked down at the site thinking that you were just oh-so-adorable when you’re like this but also feeling bad that you were sick. He planted a few more kisses on your face with a smile on his lips, feeling the cold metal of his lips piercings touch your skin with every peck he gave you. Despite him not being able to see it, you smiled at the affection he was giving you.

“get well soon, luv.”

he whispered into your hair as he placed one final kiss on the top of your head before leaning back, his smile never disappearing as he looked down at your sleepy state.

[astrobei]

SUNI!!!!! can i maybe request byler + giggling while kissing🫢🫢 go crazy with it i know itll make me insanely giddy

liv !! absolutely anything for you !! this got away from me so fast and it's so. it's. well. you'll see. here's kiss prompt #29 - giggling while kissing

“Someone’s in a good mood today,” Will remarks, raising an eyebrow at Mike over the top of his book. “What’s gotten into you?”

Mike just grins, closing the front door behind him. It’s five o'clock on a Thursday, meaning Mike’s had class from ten this morning almost straight through four p.m., with a brief break in between American Lit and his creative writing workshop where he’d run across campus to the good café for a bagel and a coffee. According to all logic and reason, Mike should not be in a good mood. He should, statistically speaking, be in a really shitty mood.

And yet.

“Nothing,” Mike says, dropping his bag to the floor, right there in the entrance to their apartment. “And what the hell? I got home, like, three seconds ago.”

Will keeps the same look fixed on him as Mike kicks his shoes off, sending them tumbling one after the other into the corner of the room. “Call it a certain je ne sais quoi,” Will replies, following Mike with his gaze as he immediately moves to pick up his shoes. “I can tell.”

Mike turns and squints. “You know French?”

“Sure,” Will laughs, then sets his book aside. He stretches, long and lazy along the length of the sofa, socked feet emerging from the ends of the blanket he’s got thrown over him. “Let’s go with that.”

“You don’t know French,” Mike announces. He would know. Will took Spanish with him for all four years of high school – four agonizing years of conjugating the past participle and imperfect subjunctive – and was even brave enough to attempt a brief foray into an introductory college class before finally calling it quits. Personally, Mike thinks it’s impressive Will lasted the semester. Mike had collected his high school credits and never looked back. “I would know.”

“Yeah?” Will leans back on the couch, watches Mike shuffle the rest of their shoes into place on the shoe rack. “Maybe I do.”

He doesn’t. “Prove it,” Mike says, then picks his bag up off the ground and plops it on top of the dining table. “Say something in French right now. Something romantic.”

“Bonjour,” Will says easily. “Mon ami.”

Mike squints even harder this time. “‘My friend’ is not a romantic thing to say, and also, you’re a liar.”

Will frowns. “How do you know French?”

“I don’t,” Mike laughs. “But I read a lot of Agatha Christie.”

Will gives him a weird look, a little incredulous and a little amused, then holds up the book he’d been reading. It’s Mike’s copy of Murder on the Orient Express. “Yeah, I know. You're unbelievable.”

“I’ve been looking for that,” Mike says, even though he absolutely hasn’t. “You thief.”

Will just smiles, beckoning Mike over to the couch with his free hand. “You love me,” he says, which is a lot closer to the mark than Mike would like Will’s rebuttals to his (entirely unserious) jabs to be.

Mike walks over, of course, because Will is right, and Mike loves him, and love makes you do crazy, stupid things – like being happy on a Thursday evening when your head hurts and your body hurts and all you want is to sleep straight through Friday afternoon. Frankly, it’s ridiculous how happy Mike feels. It’s a bit of an embarrassing look for him, actually.

“Hi,” Mike says, entirely unnecessarily, and lets Will pull him down with one hand. He lands sideways, sprawled halfway across Will’s lap, over the top of the absurdly fuzzy blanket they keep at the foot of the sofa.

Will smiles up at him. “Hey,” he replies, easy and warm. It’s also ridiculous, along with everything else, how soothing the single word is as it leaves Will’s mouth, how Mike’s oncoming headache ebbs, ever-so-slightly, at the sound. Will’s still got Mike’s book in one hand, but he folds a page down and sets it on the coffee table, then scoots over to make room, pressing his back up against the sofa cushions. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Mike sighs, tucking his face into Will’s neck and trying his hardest to not fall off the edge of the sofa. He wiggles his feet under the blanket too, tucks them under Will’s calves, the warm fleece of his pajama pants. “A little tired,” he admits, and Will lets out a sympathetic noise above him. “But good.”

“I’m glad,” Will murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Mike’s head. “And I know for a fact you’re in a weirdly good mood because I folded down the page of your book and you didn’t even yell at me.”

It takes a second for the words to land. Then– 

“Oh, you asshole,” Mike laughs, immediately twisting around in Will’s arms to look at his poor, innocent book lying on the coffee table’s coaster-dotted surface. “You were testing me?”

“You told me you didn’t care about that anymore,” Will points out, one arm wrapping instinctively around Mike’s waist as he moves. “You said you were working on it.”

“I am working on it!” Mike protests. “It’s a secondhand copy anyway, it was already dog-eared and– it’s not about that! I just think you’re so–”

“Mhm?”

“So ridiculous,” Mike says halfheartedly, as Will drops a light kiss to his nose, then his cheek. “I’m in a normal mood. A normal, fine, ordinary–”

“Sure–”

“–and I’m not any more happy than usual–”

“–uh huh–”

“Will!” Mike laughs, breaking away from Will’s vice grip, pulling back from where Will had been leaning in to press another kiss to his cheek. “Oh my god.”

Will just smiles at him. His hair is a bit messed up from lying on the couch, and Mike can feel himself warming up, slowly, from the late February chill he’d braved to walk from the bus stop back to their apartment. “Sorry,” he says, a bit apologetic, a bit pleased, and entirely genuine. “You’re just so fun.”

“I hate you,” Mike whispers. He’s sure that any hope of the phrase having even the slightest semblance of effect is vanquished immediately by the way he says it – breathless and adoring and totally, completely lovesick. “You’re infuriating.”

“You love me,” Will repeats, looking even more happy with himself than before, like getting Mike riled up and flustered is the highlight of his day. He pushes a strand of hair out of Mike’s eyes and asks, more seriously, “Are you hungry? You want something to eat?”

“Yeah? You’re gonna cook for me?” Mike asks, as if they don’t know a grand total of maybe five recipes between the two of them.

“Sure,” Will says. “Yeah. It’ll be romantic.”

Last Mike checked, they needed to get groceries, and he’s not sure what they even have that could feasibly be put together for a meal, but Will’s weirdly good at that sort of thing – throwing the most random ingredients together until it resembles something vaguely edible. Not gourmet, by any means, and sometimes not even good, but, like – if you need caloric sustenance, he’s your guy.

Mike isn’t sure how he feels about another one of those meals, though. Especially when he considers the stockpile of tuna cans in the pantry that’s been there for about a million years. He gives Will a suspicious look. “Like what?”

“Don’t give me that look,” Will says, then shoves gently at Mike’s side to get him to stand up. He follows, kicking the blanket off into a haphazard pile on the end of the sofa, and trailing Mike into the kitchen. “Mac and cheese. From a box.”

Kraft dinner sounds safe enough. “Okay,” Mike says happily. “Thank you.”

He hops up onto the counter while Will digs around the cupboard for a pot, then goes about filling it with water. The kitchen is silent for a while, save for the low humming of the fridge, the sharp clicking of the stove as it turns on. Mike watches him move, a low flame of affection bursting to life in tandem with the gas-fueled warmth against his skin. It’s probably dangerous to be sitting so close to the stove when it’s on, but whatever. It’s the only strip of counter that has enough space for Mike to climb onto and still be this close to Will.

“What’s up with you?” Will asks, pulling a box of mac and cheese off of the cupboard shelf and peering curiously up at him.

Mike, a little belatedly, realizes he’s smiling. “Nothing,” he says, as Will sets the box down on the counter next to Mike’s thigh. “Why?”

“I don’t believe you,” Will says, then slots himself easily into the space between Mike’s legs, rests two hands on his hips. “You never smile this much on a Thursday.”

“You’re so hung up on it being a Thursday,” Mike hums, as Will presses his fingers into Mike’s skin, pushing up the soft fabric of his sweatshirt just a little. “Why are you– hey, that tickles!”

Will just grins, watching Mike squirm with no small amount of joy on his face. “Watch out for the fire,” he says, calm and collected and cool as a cucumber, like he wasn’t the one that nearly got him burned in the first place.

“Watch out for the– oh, shut up,” Mike says. Will laughs, low and pleased, and leans forward, tilting his face up.

“Come down here,” he says, frowning. “I can’t kiss you when you’re all the way up there.”

“Not my fault I’m taller than you,” Mike mumbles, but slides off the counter anyway. He lands a bit awkwardly, stumbles half a step forward before Will steadies him.

“I’m hung up on it being a Thursday,” Will says, tucking a kiss to the side of Mike’s cheek, right under his ear, “because you’re always miserable on Thursdays.”

“I am not,” Mike laughs, as Will pulls back. “What gave you that idea?”

“You’re up early and you have a million classes and you never get enough time to actually eat during the day and you never let me forget it,” Will says, the answer a little too immediate for Mike’s liking. He steps closer, presses Mike back up against the counter until the cold linoleum tiles are digging into the small of his back. “And you’re a menace when your blood sugar is low. Is that it? Did you eat a real lunch today? Are you currently operating under normal human physiology?”

Mike thinks back to the solitary bagel he’d eaten in approximately seven bites while running between the English building and the Communications building. “Um. Unless you count me getting an everything bagel instead of plain, then no.”

“Then what is it?” Will asks. “I can tell, you’re so– you’re being so–”

Mike gives him a strange look. “I don’t think I’m being anything,” he says. It’s true – he doesn’t feel any different from normal, except maybe a little warmer and a little fuzzier and a little bit more hungry than on his average day. “What’s your deal? What am I being?”

“Smilier,” Will says, tilting his head like he’s looking for a nonexistent giveaway in Mike’s face. His eyes dart over Mike’s features, slowly, drinking them in.

“That’s not a word.”

“If I guess,” Will starts, ignoring him, “will you tell me?”

“There’s nothing to guess– Will!” Mike shrieks softly, as Will peppers a quick succession of kisses across his cheek and down his neck. “Fuck you, that tickles!”

“Good grade on a paper?” Will hums against his throat, which isn’t really doing much to help with the tickling thing. Mike tries to pull away, but Will’s grip is steadfast, unyielding. “Heard back from your advisor?”

“No, and no,” Mike gets out. “Nothing happened!”

“Don’t believe you,” Will murmurs, then kisses Mike over the bridge of his nose. “Class got canceled?”

“Thankfully not,” Mike laughs, “because we were peer reviewing today– Will, oh my god, why are you–”

“Be honest with me,” Will says, squinting slightly, “are you on drugs?”

“How the hell would I be on drugs,” Mike stares, a grin spreading, wide and giddy, across his face. His chest is aching from laughter, cheeks already tired from smiling so hard. It’s ridiculous how often he feels like this around Will. He didn’t know you could feel so exhausted in such a wonderful way, by such a wonderful thing. A welcome ache, soothing and grounding and exhilarating all at once. “I don’t understand you.”

“Then tell me,” Will says quietly, leaning in again. He kisses Mike, soft and intentional, thumbs rubbing circles over his hips where his crewneck had ridden up earlier, long and slow enough that Mike forgets about it, for a second – the teasing and the prodding and the interrogation – and the warm ache of laughter gives way to something smoother, steadier. He wants to sink into the feeling like a warm bath – or maybe a dry macaroni noodle in a pot of boiling water.

“The water,” Mike mumbles, barely decipherable. “It’s boiling.”

“It’s just water,” Will says, “it’ll be fine,” and kisses him again.

That’s a good point. “Okay,” Mike whispers, and lets the feeling overtake him – Will’s hands, steady and warm where they’re pressed against Mike’s skin. Where his hair is still damp from his shower, because Will is ridiculous and lame and has one morning class on Thursdays and gets to lay around at home for the rest of the day.

Will presses another kiss to Mike’s lips, leans in once, twice, and–

Thud.

“Ow,” Mike groans, pulling away just long enough to squeeze his eyes shut and rub at the back of his head, where the cabinet had oh-so-rudely refused to move out of the way for him. “Great.”

“Mike,” Will says in mild disbelief, biting down on his lower lip. His eyes are sparkling, cheeks a little flushed. God, Mike loves him. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he breathes out, smiling. “I’m– yeah, that was so stupid.”

“So stupid,” Will grins. “How did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” Mike groans again, exasperated and drawn-out, and that’s it – Will laughs, bright and happy and eyes going all crinkles at the corners and moves in to kiss him again.

“You’re so ridiculous.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Mike protests, but he’s laughing too, catching Will’s soft exhales as they leave his chest, leaning forward to press more of his weight into him. Will moves easily, lets Mike grin against his mouth – wide and happy and far too pleased for his own good.

“Okay, don’t tell me,” Will says at last, pressing a final kiss to Mike’s cheek before pulling away. “I’m just happy you’re happy.”

“Will,” Mike starts, then reels him back in with one hand on his wrist. Will looks startled, eyes wide as Mike catches him by the other hand too. “I was– nothing happened, I swear. I was just thinking about you earlier.”

Will blinks. “You were thinking about me?”

“Yeah,” Mike shrugs. Will says this like it’s a rare, wondrous occasion – Mike thinking about him, that is – and not something that usually happens during most of Mike’s waking hours and some of his unconscious ones too. “I was thinking about you. You just– you make me feel better. I didn’t notice anything was different.”

Will just looks at him. “So you’re not on drugs?”

Mike drops his head to Will’s shoulder and sighs, long and bereaved. Will laughs, low and breathy next to his ear, wraps both arms around Mike’s waist, and holds on. “Seriously?”

“I’m kidding,” Will murmurs. “That’s sweet. You– really? What were you thinking about?”

This is embarrassing.

“Just you,” Mike admits, a little muffled into the fabric of Will’s sweater. “Just– coming home to you, after a long day.”

“Sap,” Will says, saccharine and so fond that it seems to be spilling right out of him. Mike can feel it, all the ways Will loves him, like it’s a physical thing that’s taking shape under his hands. They’re what make Mike think about him so often, all the time, in the middle of a painstakingly long lecture or seminar. Turning memories like these over in his mind, the simple comfort in knowing his day is going to get better as soon as Will gets his arms around him.

“Shut up,” Mike says. He turns to kiss along the curve of Will’s cheekbone, right under his eye, where the skin has gone wonderfully pink and creased with laughter, then pulls away. “The water’s been boiling for, like, ten minutes, by the way. Just so you know.”

[randomingoftherandomness]

hello gab! hope ur having a lovely week <3

fic idea: i have NO idea how the timelines would work but anything where cheng huang/zyc are somehow reincarnations of yuanzhi and shangjue

love, 柠檬

A/N: Hello 柠檬! Hope you're having a wonderful Friday thus far. Okay, so this is my stab at this prompt. My dumb brain wrote this and then realised that I had flipped it around hahaha... I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless!

a.k.a. I'm back on my Juezhi bullshit and making it your problem

‧⁺◟( ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ·̫ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀ )

--

Shangjue is awakened by Yuanzhi pulling away and curling onto his side away from him. His senses are immediately alert and he reaches out to place a gentle hand on a shaking shoulder.

"It's just a dream, didi." He tries. "Come back to me."

It takes him a beat, but when Yuanzhi stirs, he does with a wet gasp, jerking up into a seated position which Shangjue follows. Wrapping an arm around Yuanzhi's thin waist, he instinctively presses his dear heart into an embrace. Holding on tight as he comes back to himself.

This is the third time this month.

Shangjue doesn't have to ask what the dreams are, he already knows because they're the same as his own -- always the same where they're both on opposing sides of a battle, always where there is a deep obsession, always with a deep, bottomless grief that swallows both of them whole.

He lets Yuanzhi's breathing settle, allowing him the space and time to calm down. Measures the minutes with how he relaxes in his arms, and carefully holds him through it all.

Soothingly, Shangjue says, "You know, Elder Yue once told me that dreams are glimpses into another world. Another life we could have led."

"Then that's not a world I want to live in." Yuanzhi shivers, words a little muffled where his mouth is pressed to the meat of Shangjue's shoulder. "I never want to be on any side but yours."

"Because you know I'd wipe the floor with you?"

"I have no doubt about that, but no." Yuanzhu laughs, slapping his other shoulder but is unresisting when Shangjue catches his hand to press a kiss. "No, I never want to be your enemy because I can't fathom a life where I could ever not love you."

"Yuanzhi..." Shangjue sighs, helplessly smiling through the radiating warmth of fondness that sings through his chest. Ducking his head, he swallows around the jumble of words that threaten to break him apart.

Thank you.

I love you too.

You're the most important person to me and I never want to lose you.

But all he says in response is a soft, tender, "Me too." Brushing back Yuanzhi's bangs, he thumbs at the corner of his didi's smile. Leaning in, the bubble of laughter comes loose as their lips meet, sighing a little when Yuanzhi tilts his head for a better angle.

In the back of his mind, he mentally makes a plan to visit their backyard brethren to get this looked at. There is too much coincidence with their dreams matching up like this for Shangjue to put it down to some inexplicable thing about their way of life. Maybe there is some rhyme and reason to it all.

He hopes there is one.

But for now, Shangjue is content to fold his didi back against him, kissing his brow to coax him back to sleep.

[squidsandthings]

writing dazai dialogue is so funny

poor kuni is trying his best

[lil-vibes]

hc that chuuya doesn't get sick often, but when be DOES, it hits him like a train. he'll sustain fevers that should send his body into shock for days at a time. his skin becomes so, so sensitive that he will not tolerate anything touching it that isn't the three (3) very specific blankets that he bought for this specifically or dazai's hands (but only his hands)

he's so sensitive that touching dazai's bandages will make him retch but then again if his scars rubb a little too much onto chuuya's skin, he'll want to claw it off (chuuya feels very guilty abt this btw). once dazai realized what the issue was he blew like,,,, half of his monthly salary to have arm covers custom made with the same material as those blankets so he can touch chuuya without causing the other unnecessary pain next time he gets sicks

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

WHAT IF . mer!suguru ……

[cillyscribbles]

Summary:

“Help me,” he whispered, desperate for something he could not understand, and could feel the dirt slowly trickling into the emptiness of his eyes.

A moment of silence, and the voice relented.

“Come to me,” it whispered, and he wanted nothing more. “Come to me, darling, and I will do my best.”

come get y’all’s cody sickfic friends! today on the agenda: rice, vaporators (derogatory), and quite a bit of violence.

[happi-tree]

hunter’s mark, reversed

You never forget your first kill, they always say. 

What the monster manuals and hunting guides and mentors forget to say is that sometimes, your first kill never forgets you, either. 

Grant trudges to the master bathroom, attempting to muss his hair out of its unruly bedhead. He flicks on the lights, runs the water, lets the cool chill of it splash against his face and rouse him into a loose definition of wakefulness. Washes his face, turns off the water, looks in the mirror as he pats his face dry. 

His own reflection stares at him, tired. 

His eyes veer to his right, where a pair of vacant, milky white eyes look back.

Or: Grant Wilson, and the things that haunt him.

ao3

This is my fic for @dndadsfanweeks' Halloween Week day 6: ghosts. Like previous days, this is part of the supernatural au @llumimoon, @kaseyskat, and I planned out together. Content warnings for blood, gore, death, and general angstiness.

Hunter’s Mark (reversed): You choose kill a creature you can see within range and it mystically marks it you as your its quarry. Until the spell ends, you it deals an extra 1d6 psychic damage to the target whenever you hit it with a weapon attack, and you have disadvantage on any Wisdom (Perception) or Wisdom (Survival) check you make to find it.

-Ranger Spell List, D&D 5th ed.

You never forget your first kill, they always say. 

What the monster manuals and hunting guides and mentors forget to say is that sometimes, your first kill never forgets you, either. 

Grant trudges to the master bathroom, attempting to muss his hair out of its unruly bedhead. He flicks on the lights, runs the water, lets the cool chill of it splash against his face and rouse him into a loose definition of wakefulness. Washes his face, turns off the water, looks in the mirror as he pats his face dry. 

His own reflection stares at him, tired. 

His eyes veer to his right, where a pair of vacant, milky white eyes look back, expressionless, framed by dark locs and pallored skin. 

“Hi, Yeet,” Grant says softly. 

You never forget your first kill. 

You never forget your first crush, either. 

And for Grant Wilson, he’s unlucky enough that those two people ended up one and the same. 

There is no response from the boy in the mirror, just a blank, glassy stare, like one of the taxidermied animal heads that had decorated the walls of his grandma’s house. 

(As a little kid, he’d always thought their severed heads and marble eyes were a bit uncomfortable to look at, a bit creepy. He would make a game in his head of seeing how long he could be in the family room at night before he chickened out and turned the lights on. It was good, harmless fun, to look at the things Grandpa Frank had shot and convince himself that they were watching him from somewhere beyond the veil.)

(That was before he met Yeet, of course. Before his father had pulled him aside and told Grant what Grandpa Frank had told him.)

“Honey,” Marco calls from beyond the bathroom, and his husband’s soothing voice manages to pull him from his thoughts, just a little. His white-knuckle grip on the edge of the sink loosens (when had he grabbed it?). 

“Hey, I’m headed out to work,” Marco says, poking his head in through the doorway. 

The sight of Grant’s favorite person relaxes him further.

(He tries not to think about the way he had looked with a bullet wound between his eyes in his dream last night, his eyes fog-covered and glass-marbled, his jaw slack and dripping with gore.)

Grant feels Marco’s stubble brush along his cheekbone as his husband gives him a quick peck. 

“Okay,” Grant hears himself say, although it feels like his head is underwater (it feels like his head is stuck twenty-five years in the past.) “Love you.”

Marco’s eyebrows knit together above his half-moon glasses. Grant hates and loves in equal measure the way that his husband can read him so well, even when he’s busy and frazzled from his morning routine. Some sort of witchy ability of his, he’s sure. 

The concern in those onyx-flint eyes make Grant want to run and hide, sometimes, to cower and shy away like a prey animal under the weight of his affection. 

Grant stays still, though. He’s gotten better at that (at least, that’s what Marco tells him).

“You sound awful.”

“Good morning to you, too, sweetheart,” Grant says, trying to inject some lightheartedness into his voice.

“The adjustments I made to the sleeping draught didn’t work much, huh,” Marco frets.

Grant sighs. “Yeah.” Among other things.

His gaze slides to the mirror again: his warm, wonderful, magical husband on his left, a ghostly shade of a boy on his right. Grant in the middle, somewhere between living and dead, between predator and prey.

Marco follows his gaze, sees the way it lands on negative space.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I could always try an exorcism,” he muses, squinting at the silver-backed pane like he’s trying to force himself to see what Grant does.

“Too risky,” Grant says, like he has every other time Marco has offered. “He lashed out a lot, when I was younger. I wouldn’t want him to hurt you.”

It’s true. In the first few months - years - afterward, Yeet was a complete poltergeist. Gusts of wind would rip through every corridor of his childhood home, piercing shrieks and wordless screams echoing right next to his ears, those milky-white eyes narrowed in fury as wave upon wave of pity-disgust-betrayal-anger-fear reached through to his chest with icy cold fingers, emotions that were his burden but not his own siphoning between his ribs and pulling .

Phantom blood had drenched his teenage hands, red and sticky and awful but also strangely beautiful, congealing into chunks around shaking joints, caking into his fingernails, and Grant would pick at the skin there until it bled anew, as if disposing of the flaking crimson would absolve him of his sins.

Grant has long since rid himself of Catholic guilt. His own is more than any god could give him, now, and he watches as the red fills his peripheral vision, leaving gory smears on the countertop, worming its way into every line of his palm. Its counterpart blooms from Yeet’s chest, flowering and spreading outward, mesmerizing in a way that Grant knows he shouldn’t find pretty.

Marco exhales, places a hand atop his, unlatches it from the edge of the sink (fuck, he had been gripping it too hard again, hadn’t he), interlocks their fingers together. The red doesn’t spread to him.

(Grant hopes it never will. Grant hopes that, at the end of things, he will be buried, soaked in blood and gore, a sponge for all the violence so that his family, his friends, his pack, never have to live in fear again.)

“Okay,” Marco says, calmly, firmly.

Too many people have treated Grant like he is fragile, one moment away from breaking. Blessedly, Marco has never been one of them.

“I’m fine,” Grant says. “I’m fine, Marco.”

“It’s okay not to be,” Marco says, infuriatingly patient for someone who was about to rush out the door.

“You’re going to be late,” he evades.

“Time is relative, dear,” Marco responds, the air tingeing with a very specific mirage of color that Grant has long since learned to identify as his husband’s magic. There’s a slight upturn to his mouth, and Grant can���t help but lean into him and fit his lips to the seam of his smile.

Marco’s hands come to grasp at his waist, grounding, steadying, and the air smells less like a bloodstained forest night and more like clementines and jasmine. 

When Grant pulls away, there is no blood where his fingers cup his husband’s jaw, nor where his hand fists in his clean shirt.

“There you are,” Marco murmurs, smiling gently, and fuck, Grant does not deserve him in the slightest.

(He doesn’t need the lone boy in the mirror, rigor-mortis-frozen at age thirteen, to tell him that. Although the phantasmal reminder certainly doesn’t hurt.)

“You sure you’re gonna be okay to drive Lincoln to school?” Marco asks.

At the edge of his hearing, Grant can hear the uncoordinated puttering of their son in the kitchen, attempting to prepare his breakfast with only his feet.

He smiles, and it feels a little less fake on his face. “Yeah, I can handle it. It’s his first day, I can’t not drive our little boy!”

“Alright,” Marco says, pecking him again on the cheek and turning to leave before pausing at the threshold.

“Oh,” he says. “Before I forget and you freak out, Lincoln and I did some arts and crafts yesterday.”

“Friendship bracelets?” Grant asks.

“Yep.”

There’s a cold breeze only he can feel. “And they work?”

Marco cocks his head to one side. “No reason why they shouldn’t. Iron to ward off fae, silver for werewolves, even soaked the strings in holy water to throw something anti-demonic in there,” he lists. “And of course, imbued with good intent.”

 “Of course,” Grant echoes. 

“I can tell you’re thinking,” his husband says.

Grant hums. “Public school’s gonna be good for Lincoln, it’s just - are we going too far with the precautions?” He frowns. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“I mean, he’s going to find out eventually,” Marco says. “Whether or not he hears it from us.”

“I don’t want that to happen.”

“It’s going to, one way or another,” his husband asserts, frown clashing against his smile lines.

“I know, I know,” Grant sighs. “It’s just-”

There’s so much blood on Grant’s hands, passed down from his father and his father’s father, monster hunter to monster hunter to monster hunter. (Grant’s idea of a monster has shifted, as his father’s had, but the rush of the hunt remains regardless). The red will spread, as the red always does.

He can only hope it doesn’t stain his son’s hands. He can only hope it doesn’t ooze from his son’s ruptured heart. 

Marco’s features soften. “I know,” he says. (He shouldn’t have to know.) “He’s growing up too fast.”

“Yeah,” Grant agrees.

“If you think the bracelets are too much, though, I don’t think he’s packed yet.”

Grant’s vision is drawn once more to the figure in the mirror. Yeet regards him silently, mouth agape in a silent scream of betrayal. His ghostly form still bears the marks of a witch hunter, wooden stakes and crucifixes and torches that Grant didn’t let him set ablaze. 

He looks, and Yeet morphs before his eyes, locs shortening to dark, fluffy curls, close-cropped at the sides, freckles appearing on boyish, rounded cheeks and lanky limbs. The ghost looks a lot like Lincoln.

Yeet smiles wickedly, and blood pools from the corner of his mouth, runs down his spectral chin.

“No, no, the bracelets are a good idea,” Grant says, eyes not leaving the mirror. “Thank you for helping make them.”

“Not a problem, honey,” Marco says, squeezing his shoulder and dragging him back to the living “All good to go?”

“I need to get dressed, first,” Grant responds, gesturing at his loose t-shirt and boxers.

“I’ll leave you to it, then, I really do have to go,” He says. “I’m gonna wish Lincoln good luck, and then I’m off!”

“Okay,” Grant says, already moving to grab his sweater and slacks for his shift at the library later today. “Love you.”

“Love you, too!” Marco replies, immediate and ever-present, an answer to a question Grant doesn’t deserve to ask. “And Grant?”

“Hm?”

“Lincoln will be fine,” Marco reassures. “Trust me. I have a good feeling about this.”

“I hope so.”

The boy in the full-length mirror stares at him, hovering just at his right, and Grant avoids looking at him.

God, I really hope so. 

[nebulousfishgills]

Reading Emily's saga from HTM to Necrosis (plus Instinct and finishing with Shades of Blue) to @bowersbubbles has been a very rewarding experience, getting real time feedback while I make her laugh, lose her shit, and cry while I swallow mucus by the mouthful since my nose has Issues.

Apologies to my much beloved roommate for having to vaguely hear me reading out loud into the 1 or even 2 AM.