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OH yeah.....

‘Can you stand?’ A asked. B nodded shakily, trying to pull themselves to their feet.

Just as soon as they managed to get upright, their knees buckled. B’s vision went blurry as they tried to grab the wall, or anything, really, to stop them from-

A catches them before they hit the ground, helping B sit back down. ‘S-sorry,’ B stutters. ‘I-’

‘It’s okay.’ A slips a hand under B’s legs and another behind their back and picks them up easily. ‘It’s okay, I’ve got you.’

Cold Feet - sickfic w joel miller

@chaithetics this is for you! xox feel better

cw: general injury/sickness recovery fic, nothing graphic but mentions of nausea, pain, dizziness, fainting, cute stuff idk, not really established relationship but joel be crushin fr fr

The dingy wallpaper swam in lazy eddies. You'd been laying on the couch, curled in the fetal position for hours, staring listlessly at the badly stained floral walls. The faded roses and lilies were swaying in an imaginary wind, fluttering in the woozy aftereffects of the pain meds.

It had only been an hour since your last dose, but you still felt like a rusted knife had ripped through your abdomen. A combination of a bad knife wound and the subsequent infection had incapacitated you for all of yesterday and today. If you had any rational thought, you'd be bored stupid. Instead, you were just drugged stupid.

Honestly, not much of a difference.

After staggering home from the med tent, you laid your meds, water, and two tureens of watery broth. That way, you didn't have to stumble to the kitchen every time you got hungry. Though even turning over to fumble with the pill bottle set fire to your belly.

The darkness of sleep sucked your mind into nothing as you blissfully lost consciousness.

Shhp. Shhhhp. Shhhh-

the sliding of something across your floor stirred your syrupy mind. Wincing as bright sunlight stabbed your aching head, you tried to focus blearily on the figure in front of you.

He - you assumed - was dressed in heavy clothes and grunting like a wounded bear.

"Joel?" Your voice sounded hideous, creaking like the wind in the trees. His familiar mop of curls startled, and he turned to look at you. He looked mildly ashamed, you thought, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Hey, sugar," he rasped, pausing what he was doing to limp over. "Didn't mean to wake ya."

You tried to raise your head but another sludgy wave of pain forced you to mash your face in the cushions. A pathetic whimper was muffled by the corduroy.

"You look a little rough, honey," he said, stooping to brush the hair from your face. You flinched a little at the sudden contact, sparks lighting at the point of contact.

Joel soothed an apology and went to close the blinds. "Tommy said you were down for the count, so I thought I'd stop by," he said hoarsely, blessedly dimming the light to darkness. You sagged with relief. Joel's soothing drawl rambled about his day while he sick-proofed your little room; placing a metal bowl for easy reach, grabbing a blanket from the adjacent bedroom, and replacing your water with fresh, cool water.

"Let me," he whispered, carefully maneuvering you into the sitting position so you could have some slow sips of broth. The movement made your chest throb, and you huffed in pain. A soothing hand stroked your hair. You could smell him, woodsy and warm on his flannel. Trembling from the roiling pain of your wound, you tucked yourself against his broad chest. Joel took the hint, and gently placed a pill in your open mouth.

You felt a little embarrassed, being this dependent on him to do something as simple as drink soup. You tried to voice your apology, but your weak state jumbled the sentence into slurred mumbles. Joel shushed you, rubbing your shoulder.

"'S alright," he murmured, "happy to help." Easing a drink of blissfully cool water down your throat, he gently lifted you and headed towards your bedroom. The light bouncing made you wince, but the soft brushed of his lips on your hair eased any discomfort.

"You'll feel better on a real bed."

You groaned weakly when your head hit the pillow. Joel tucked the sheets and blankets all the way to your chin, eyes soft and worried. "You been out a while, huh, baby?"

At your weak agreement he nodded and continued to smooth his hand over your sweaty brow.

"We'll fix ya up, don' worry about it," he assured, kissing the tears from your cheeks.

Lighting a sweet-smelling candle, he murmured a goodnight and left for evening patrol.

Hours later, he came trudging back. The gentle creak of the wardrobe as he hung up his jacket and rifle roused you, but only slightly. His warm touch and the feeling of his chest against your back rolled you right back under.

a spoonful of sugar

summary: marc's not very good at taking his medicine.

(I was the worst at drinking this stuff as a kid so I need validation)

cw: fluff, sickfic, marc is a little baby

You knew it was coming. Even as he flapped his hand and rolled his eyes and laughed allergies, baby, you knew. When it was eight in the morning and your early bird boyfriend hadn't even stirred, you knew. That rumbling cough wasn't an annual pollen allergy.

There was a pot of tea on the stove before he woke. You'd prepped the supplies - tissues, a damp towel, some anti-inflammatory, and were in the middle of making food when his croaky voice broke the silence. You knelt by his bed and pulled the blankets away from his sweaty face.

"Help," he rasped, "I'm -cough- dying..."

The desperate display of obvious dramatics made you grin. He was always such a tough guy; scoffing at band-aids and ice packs. It was tempting to tease but his puppy eyes were too much.

"Come on, big guy, let's get some food in you." You gently pulled the covers down to help him up, but he harrumphed and yanked them right back.

"Sod off," came Steven's weary voice from under the comforter. "Marc's being a toff and making me deal with the sore throat." A pitiful sniffle and a hacking cough erupted from his broad shoulders. The blankets shuddered as Steven raked in a breath.

"Marc, come on," you cooed, rubbing his back. "Leave poor Steven alone. I've got some stuff for you, you'll feel better."

A pause, then some grumbling as he sat up. "Poor Steven? Wha' bou' me?"

His whining was choked up by the pressure in his throat. You could see the blockage in his sinuses as he struggled to keep his eyes open. A whistling sigh left his lips. He was definitely sick. Deliriously, Marc dragged a hand through his wild, sweaty hair. He reminded you of a scruffy ragdoll cat dragged in from the rain.

With a fussy Marc in tow, you fixed a cup of herbal tea and some food. So far he just seemed congested but he needed some food to handle the medicine. He miserably blew at the steaming mug, swaying on his feet. You held him against you sympathetically. He greedily drank in the attention, sniffing louder to earn a few forehead kisses.

Marc didn't get sick very often. He was pretty good at eating well, getting sleep when he could, and exercising regularly. Usually he could sleep it off and be totally fine. Every once in a while though, he'd get kicked on his ass for a while.

The kitchen island had every box of decongestant and cough syrup you could find splayed out in a heap. You weren't sure which one he preferred, so you'd let him pick. Not one of them seemed to be opened.

He had finished half of the tea, grimacing after every sip. Marc much preferred coffee, said his beseeching glance at the coffeemaker.

"Caffeine won't help," you chided gently, standing in front of the alluring machine. He sent you a sour look and folded his arms, shivering at another wracking cough. You reminded yourself to be gentle - Marc didn't like feeling weak.

Letting him go about grabbing water and wolfing down more toast, you examined the available medicines.

He'd need some ibuprofen, and probably a decongestant. You'd give it to him now so he could take a hot shower while you changed the sheets. Airing out the flat would clear the germy air well enough.

Marc approached you warily, eyeing the pharmaceutical stash you had amassed.

"Whassat?" he asked hoarsely, ducking his chin against your neck. Petting his cheek absently, you continued your perusing.

"We need to get you some meds, honey. Do want the grape stuff or no flavor? Haven't got anything better, looks like."

You felt his lips frown against your skin. "I'll just take a shower, don't neeb all tha' stuff." he coughed again, wincing at the blockage in his nose. His breath was hot. You frowned, pressing your palm against his head.

"You're feverish, Marc, you need something more than a shower. You can take one after." Filling a glass with water, you handed him a tablet and nodded. "Take that."

Muttering, he knocked it back and slugged down the water. Sliding behind you, he made his way towards the bathroom but you tugged his sleeve back.

"Hang on, one more." You slowly measured out a dose of decongestant. The garish red syrup glug-glugged quietly, an acrid smell of medicinal berry coating your nose. Blegh, you winced. It was baffling how nobody had thought to make it a tasteless pill. Drinking ounces of disgusting syrup was your least favorite way to knock out a cold.

Turning, you carefully handed Marc the little cup. "Drink that and another glass of water, then you can shower. I'll address the sheets."

You made sure to adjust the thermostat on your way to the bedroom. Once his fever dropped he'd want some warmth to sleep in. The window let in a cooling breeze, washing away the stuffy scent of sick. London's quiet din rumbled outside, providing a soundtrack for your relaxed cleaning.

Bundling the sheets and towels into your arms, you made your way to the washroom. You paused.

Marc was hunched over the counter, glaring at something.

"Marc?"

A flicker of embarrassment, then he curled his body away and grumbled a response. Frowning, you tossed the sheets in the hamper and crossed to him.

"What've you been doing? I gave that to you a while ago."

He nodded, still scowling at the viscous berry medicine. A pause. you tilted your head.

"...You okay?"

Marc didn't respond. That little serving of medicine continued to endure his baleful wrath, practically trembling on the countertop. The spell was broken by an enormous sneeze. Marc reeled from the sound, shaking the fuzz from his head.

"I think you've intimidated it enough," you joked softly, rubbing his shoulder. "But really, honey, you need to drink that."

A familiar pair of wide brown eyes blinked sorrowfully at you. "But...it tastes foul," Steven whined, sticking his lip out for emphasis. You raised your eyebrow and poked his side.

"Spector, stop shoving off to Steven. You're the one who wanted to sleep with a window open in November, you gotta suffer the consequences."

A moment of twitching and he was back, bleary and disgruntled. Ears pink with Steven's admission, Marc hedged away from you again and tried to escape to the bathroom. His clumsy feet shuffled along the creaky baseboards. You let him have his way for a moment, but soon enough was enough.

"Marc, you've literally drunk the most disgusting alcohol ever without a second thought."

He looked at you reproachfully, trying to work Steven's angle of adorable petulance. His grumpy frown did make your heart fawn, but the wracking cough and guttural sneeze overran the knee-jerk reaction.

Irritated that his tactics weren't working, Marc slumped onto your shoulder. Chuckling, you rubbed his back, rocking him side to side. His hands were insistent, tugging you backwards. You realized, almost too late, that he was trying to angle himself closer to an escape path.

"Spector-"

Before you could grab him, he had disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the tap.

You sighed. At least he was showering.

The laundry was done, and the apartment sufficiently sanitized by the time Marc reappeared, damp hair curling around his ears. He looked a little brighter. His eyes were clear and his cheeks a healthier ruddiness rather than feverish.

And, just like before, the little cup of syrup lay sitting on the counter for him. He was visibly bothered when you hadn't forgotten.

"Meds," you said firmly when he moved in for a kiss. The comment offended him, and he tried to peck you anyway. You put a hand over his mouth and pushed gently, handing him the cup.

"I don't wan' to," he rasped, lip curling. "It tastes like lighter fluid - cough - and I don't feel better anyway."

"How would you know, you haven't taken it?"

Marc huffed, dramatically folding his arms and turning his nose up.

"Marc."

Your tone made him duck his head. It was funny to watch him squirm; his reluctance almost reminded you of Steven. Usually he would bite the bullet and do anything that made him uncomfortable with nothing but a shrug. Hell, you'd seen him clean Steven's sick off the toilet after a night out with less of a reaction.

Sympathizing a little bit, you poured a glass of orange juice and slid it over.

"If you drink the medicine really fast, you can wash it down with juice."

Marc grumbled, still wrinkling his nose.

"Does that work?"

"Hmmm no," he huffed, folding his arms tighter. "I thin' you should gib me a kiss 'cause you're bein' meab," he garbled, voice strangled around the congestion. You bit down a laugh, trying to seem sincere.

"You can't even talk, Marc, I am not gonna kiss you."

The admission made his head snap up, eyes terrified. You worked this new angle, putting your hands up and backing away. "I don't want your germs."

He protested quietly, hands reaching out.

"Hug?"

"Meds."

"But-"

"No buts," you said, tone gentle again, "come on. Just a second. It'll take like two seconds and then you can drink some juice and go lay down. Yes, I'll lay with you," you acquiesced at his narrowed gaze.

He was stubbornly refused. "Marc," you sighed, dragging a hand over your face. "You'd be done with this by now if you just drank it."

"I don' like it," he bit out. Unbelievable. You stared at each other for a moment, disdainfully scowling at the situation.

"You know what, fine," you griped, taking the cup in your hand. "Pick a number between one and five."

He blinked, but relented. "F...four," he wheezed, wiping his nose with his sleeve. You held up four fingers.

"I will give you four kisses if you drink this."

He brightened. "snfff- wait, I meant fibe."

You leaned forward and nudged his nose. He tried to grab you for a kiss but you ducked back, taking the opportunity to grab his jaw gently. Eyes hazy and loving, he smiled at you.

"Open," you said softly, tapping his lips and winking.

Marc obeyed, clearly expecting a kiss. Instead, you gently tipped the medicine to his lips. Marc yelped at the sharp taste. He fussed and balked, struggling not to choke. You shushed him, tipping the cup until it had all dribbled past his lips.

"Drink it quick, honey, there you go, all done-" You shoved him the glass of juice, coaxing him to finish the dose. Marc spluttered and gagged, wincing at the taste. Eyes watering, he glared at you.

"Tha' was rude," he pouted. You cuddled him up and kissed his forehead.

"Yeah, but now you can go snuggle into bed." This outcome placated him greatly, nuzzling into your shoulder as you situated the bed. Marc jabbed your side insistently and you paused to give him a kiss.

Wrinkling your nose, you nodded. "Wow. Yeah, I can taste that. It's pretty shit."

He threw his hands up, rolling his eyes as you giggled. "Sorry for torturing you," you teased, peppering his cheek with light kisses.

"Fuggin' waterboarded me with that," he grouched, suppressing a grin at your doting affection.

The blankets, still warm from the dryer, were tucked high around his drowsy face. You lay as close as you could, draping your arm over his side. Marc snuffled and coughed for a few moments but was asleep soon, breath puffing hot against your neck. You monitored him for a while, hands gently stroking his hair before succumbing to your own nap.

@krakenkitty @ominoose @bulletgoth @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @justsomeonecalledemma @iolaussharpe-24 @rosegnome @twwcs @heeheehoohoofictimr @steven-grants-world @ael-xander @to-be-a-sunshine @weasleyswizarding-wheezes

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Jeffrey Hawk/The Clown taking care of a reader on their period.

He knew there was something up. Last night you had tossed and turned for hours on end, even going so far as to leave the bed and lay on the couch to "not bother him as much". Pfft. You should know better than to think that way. The only thing that bothered Jeffrey was when you made wrong and unnecessary assumptions about him. It was as if you expected the worst out of him. But he wouldn't get frustrated with you over this for he knew exactly what was going on.

Jeffrey had woken up before you, hauling himself out of bed to go fix breakfast and watch TV. He knew that, after such a difficult night, you needed the rest, and it was best to let you recuperate. The day could start later. However, on a trip to the restroom, he decided to stop and check in on you, his grey-blue eyes taking in the sight of your uncovered body bathing in the morning glow of sunshine penetrating through the curtains. You were so beautiful and cute, your mouth parted open, hair messy, arms strung out and feet tangled in the blankets. Your peaceful aura brought joy to his broken world.

He continued to gaze at you in simple admiration until the sight of something dark glistened within the morning sun. He huffed in suspicion and waltzed into the room, his eyes squinting as he looked down at the splotches of red in between your thighs. Oh boy. He sighed, noting that your underwear was soaked as well as the sheets beneath you. Welp, looks like you were going to be boss of the house for a while.

Minor aggravation coursed through Jeffrey's nerves as he quietly stomped off to start you a warm bath. He wasn't aggravated with you or the situation by any means, but he did have a feeling that this was going to be a problem for you. You were already so skittish, insecure and doubtful around him in general, constantly apologizing and panicking over the simplest things. Waking up to this? He just knew that you were probably going to freak out and overreact. You might cry too. Ugh... He hated seeing you cry.

After starting the water and grabbing a spare towel, Jeffrey returned to the bedroom and approached you on the bed. Carefully he seated himself on the mattress, his head turning back to take in your slumbering form. Dang it. He really didn't want to disturb you. He sighed, his hand reaching out to gently shake your shoulder. "Hey... Hey, bunny, wake up," He mumbled, stroking your cheek. "Wake up now."

"Mm?" Came your endearing reply, little, tired whimpers filling the air as you roused, eyes blinking open goofily. "Jeffrey?" You whispered, your sleepy tone just so adorable and sweet. He could eat you up in a heart beat.

"Hey bunny," He coughed a little while leaning down, his hand brushing your cheek before allowing you to take his hand, "How're you feeling?"

You blinked gorggily and hummed, your mouth opening with a yawn, "Mmm... Still tired." As you began to stretch, Jeffrey suddenly released your hand and went to place a palm on your thigh, stilling you into confusion, "What-"

"Try not to move too much, m'k?" He whispered in a somewhat hushed voice, his palms rubbing soothing circles into your thighs as he tried to pull a funny face, "I think the captain here's sailing 'cross the red sea."

"Huh?" You rasp in confusion at his confusing joke before the familiar terms hit you at bullet speed, and you were jerking yourself upwards far enough you could look down between your legs. And that's when the horror settled in.

"Now, now," Jeffrey began, pointing a firm expression your way before you started going haywire. "Don't you dare go off them rails, ya hear? This ain't nothin' to worry about, got it?"

"Oh no," You gasp, you're conscience overrun with mortification. You had started your period. You had started your period on Jeffrey's bed. How disgusting could you be? And he had caught you. He was right here in front of you witnessing it. Oh God, he must be furious. You had contaminated his personal belongings with your nasty human filfth, and now he was probably going to throw you out like the unleashed dog you were. "I... I..." Your eyes began to water.

"Damn it, (y/n), I said don't worry," Jeffrey sighed in visual frustration and stood up, his big arms lifting outwards towards you. "Up," He demanded, wiggling his fingers at you, "Come on."

"I-I'm sorry," You whined, one hand going to cover your eyes while the other clenched up in the sheets, "I'm so sorry..."

"For God's sake, quit apologizin'. I ain't mad; you know that," He grumbled, tossing the towel at you. "Here, wrap yourself with this. I got the bath runnin' for ya. Hurry an' get in there before it overflows."

You took the towel with a small speckle of uncertainty, your watery eyes looking at him with sad wonder. He wasn't mad? And he had made you a bath? You sniffled, your humiliated, terrified heart scrambling around in a ball of worry inside your chest. "Thank you, Jeffrey," You whisper, unable to face him as you grab the towel with shaky hands and go to wrap it around your waist. "I-I promise I-I'll clean this up. N-new sheets and everything, I promise, I-"

As soon as you stood up, Jeffrey pressed two fingers against your lips and wheezed, his scowl small yet teasing, "Do I needa' glue your mouth shut?"

You bowed your head at him in shame. Jeffrey sighed in huge exaggeration and pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you and holding you against his side, "Quit mopin', alright? The only crime you've committed is raisin' my water bill."

You scoffed, glaring at him from where your face lay happily smooshed against his pecks. He chuckled and ruffled your messy hair playfully, "I need'a redecorate anyway. Same ol' sheets get boring to look at all the time."

"I really don't mind cleaning it up," You whimpered, gazing at your bloody mess with shame and misery, "I know I'm disgusting..."

"And I don't mind spankin' your ass ya say somethin' like that one more time," Jeffrey growled, glaring unhappily at you in the hopes that you would understand that he wasn't in the mood to tolerate your obnoxious doubts and insecurities. Whenever you looked away in further despair, he sighed, hugged you tight and pressed a chaste kiss to the side of your forehead. "Get in there b'fore the tub overflows. Leave your clothes on the sink. Got it, sunshine?"

"Yeah," You replied quietly, your body absorbing his tender affections as he held you close for a few seconds longer.

"Now scat," Jeffrey gave you a small push, ushering you away so that he could take care of the blankets and sheets.

Stuck in a cloud of humiliation, you followed his orders and went to the bathroom, abruptly turning off the facet water before shedding your shirt, shorts and underwear. You sat the stained clothing on the sink as he requested and went to dip yourself into the fresh, clean tub, loving satisfaction buzzing through you as you enjoy the soothing temperature. Jeffrey always knew just what you liked. You were lucky to have him.

"Wastin' my water..." Jeffrey sighed in exasperation as he entered the bathroom to grab your dirty clothes, his eyes lingering on your shy figure lying cozily in the tub. You were so damn beautiful to him, even on your bad days.

"Really?" You groaned, knowing that he was obviously teasing you. He was always cracking silly jokes, trying to make you feel guilty about random things you would never feel guilty about. Over the months you had grown used to it, simply rolling your eyes every time he teased, but you wouldn't deny the fondness you felt towards his ridiculous jokes.

Jeffrey chuckled and asked, "Want me to cook ya breakfast?"

You fumbled nervously, unconsciously feeling bad for nodding, "Yes please?"

"What'a ya want?" Jeffrey coughed, purposely playing around with your dirty underwear and earning himself an attack of water being flicked his way. "Hey, I said no wastin' water. Jesus, you're tryin' to ring me dry."

"Oh stop it," You bark, rolling your eyes. See? A tease. You smiled at him and requested what you desired eating for breakfast, your heart drumming with content as he agreed to have it ready by the time you got dressed.

Before he left the bathroom, he made sure that you had everything you needed. Clean clothes, pads, your hairbrush and a fresh towel. He also brought you a cup of your favorite morning beverage along with some menstrual medication. Later on he would go to the store to stock up on some more of your monthly needs, but you might have to write it all down on paper for him. He wouldn't make you go anywhere when you were feeling like this.

After you were finished with your bath, you got dressed and did your morning bathroom routine before making way for the kitchen, the sight of the fresh bed sheets sending a warm tremor through your heart. How could you ever want for anyone greater? Did a greater person exist? The smell of breakfast outlined your precious feelings as you wandered into the kitchen, your fingers pressing together over your aching belly as you approached the man sitting at the dining table.

"Feelin' better?" Asked Jeffrey, his mouth twitching as he took one last drag off a cigarette before crushing it in the ash bowl.

"Mhm, thank you," You almost came close to apologizing again but paused immediately on account of the fact that Jeffrey did not like it when you apologized too much. So you settled for walking up beside him, your hands going to wrap around his shoulders, your face forming into a pout, "My tummy still hurts."

"Well tell it to stop," Jeffrey wheezed while waving the lingering smoke away as he pulled you close to him, one large hand slipping up the front of your shirt.

You instantly uttered a deep, quiet moan of bliss, the feel of Jeffrey's large, warm, magnetizing hand rubbing your tender, aching flesh causing your toes to curl in bodily satisfaction. It felt so good. You sighed, hugging him against your chest, your throat nearly purring from how good it felt, the love he gave you. He kissed your neck, his hot breath sending a shudder through you.

"Darn thing, makin' me waste all this water and gas," Jeffrey grumbled, chuckling whenever you pushed on his head a little in frustration. "Can't even watch my favorite show. Know why?"

"Because I'm dis-"

"Cause I already got it right here in my arms," Jeffrey cut you off, one arm tightening around you in a manner of fondness, love and protection. "Best show I ever did see." You melted at that, your body sagging into him as if you were perfectly molded for each other. Inside your chest your heart fluttered in madness, consumed by the loving attention he continued to shower you with.

Jeffrey finished cooking you and himself breakfast, continously teasing and making ridiculous jokes. You were beginning to feel better although the aches and pressure still greatly lingered. Eating helped a bit, but the cramps restrained you from properly enjoying the delicious meal. A few times you had complained up until the point Jeffrey grabbed your mostly empty plates, scraped them and threw them in the sink before dragging you to the living room sofa, and from there he proceeded to do one of your favorite things ever.

Once Jeffrey had the TV turned on to his desired channel, he grabbed his soda and sat down on the couch, steadily reclining back into the beat-in cushions. From there he gazed up at you and shook his head in confusion, his arms gesturing you forward. "Well come on," He ushered.

Blushing, you timidly walked forward, your body erupting with a small tremor of excitement as you stopped before him. Gazing away, you carefully put a knee on the couch on one side of his thigh before quickly following suite with the other, straddling his strong thighs between your own smaller ones. "That's it, bunny," Jeffrey rubbed the back of your head, his hands gently coaxing you into leaning against him.

And you did.

With a happy whimper, you leaned forward, your belly and chest pressing against Jeffreys and leaving you with just enough room to lay your head against his thick, warm pecks. And yes, it was precisely as amazing as it sounded. Forget hot water bottles. Forget heating pads. Forget massager guns. Why would you need any of those things when you had literally all you could ever want and more right here?

You sighed pleasantly, your cramps feeling significantly less destructive while being snuggly pressed against him. "I gotcha," He whispered against the top of your head, kissing you as his hands caressed and massaged the areas of your body he knew often ached the worst. "I gotcha."

And he would always have you.

Herman Carter taking care of a reader on their period.

Early this morning whenever he woke up, Herman took extra caution in getting out of bed for he could recall how exhausted and sore you had been all evening yesterday. Last night you had had trouble sleeping and complained of stomach pain when he asked. Considering what time of the month it was, it was rather obvious what was happening. He had gotten out of bed quietly so not to disturb you. Later he planned to wake you after you had gotten enough rest so that he could shower you with love and care.

For the majority of the morning Herman prioritized himself with making coffee, calling to check and see how his "business" was running while he was out for the weekend, and reading the newspaper. A mere hour and a half had passed whenever he suddenly heard the guttural sound of the pipes groaning in the walls indicating running water. What? Herman lowered his mug and gazed in the direction of the hallway where the bathroom was. Were you awake?

Dismissing his newspaper, Herman stood up, took another drink of his beverage and made way down the hall. On his way to the bathroom, he peeked inside your shared bedroom and saw an empty bed void of sheets and one of the blankets. Oh no. You must have started while you were asleep. Herman sighed in slight distress for he knew how sensitive you were. Waking up like this probably put you in a terrible mood.

But that didn't mean that he was going to run away and avoid you. No. You needed him, and he loved you so much, there was no good reason to let something simple like this bring either of you down.

Heading to the restroom, Herman stopped and gently knocked on the door, "(y/n) my love, is everything alright?"

On the other side of the door, he could hear your broken gasp and the shuffling of your feet over the trickle of running water. "Y-yeah, I-I'm alright," You whined.

But Herman knew better. "May I come in?" He asked, his lips roughly pressing together as he suppressed the urge to march in there himself and embrace you.

"N-not right now, please," You whimpered, and it nearly drove Herman insane because he knew that you were anxious and humiliated and you were most likely crying.

"I know what happened," He stated, leaning against the door with his hand resting on the knob, "And I hope you know that I understand. You needn't feel ashamed."

"But I..." You cried.

That settles it. Herman opened the door and walked inside, clouded by the steam from the shower as he studied your hunched form standing in front of the counter, your face buried in your hands. Besides your stained underwear, you were completely naked, your body trembling and jerking every few seconds.

"Oh (y/n)," He mumbled and moved forwards to place a hand on your shoulder, coaxing you into unraveling enough to face him, "Everything is going to be alright."

"No it's not," You protested with a choked, messy cry, your hands jerking away from your face thus showing your broken, agitated expression, "I'm disgusting. I ruin e-everything. Why do you even still have me around?"

"(y/n)..." Herman bit his tongue and tilted his head back, the flood of anger that had invaded him from your denials and false assumptions dissipating by his strong understanding. You were on your period. This kind of attitude was to be expected.

Breathing out calmly, Herman stepped forward, placed his hand on your other shoulder and carefully turned you towards him. "I have you around because I love you," He spoke firm and genuinely, "There's nothing that you have ruined. We can wash the clothes. My, you act as if a little blood is treason."

"It is," You mumbled, rubbing your nose and averting your gaze.

Herman chuckled and pulled you into his arms, "Even committing treason, you're still the most beautiful gift I could ever ask for."

You whined into his chest while eagerly soaking up his praise, warmth and reassurance. Herman was always putting up with your depressed mood swings and insecurities, constantly showering you with all his divine love and support. He was the best person you could ever have. "I love you," You mumbled into his chest, nuzzling the firmly textured fabric of his suit.

"And here I was beginning to believe that you didn't want to be around me," Herman recollected with an innocent hum.

You frowned and looked up at him with an irritated glare, not really appreciating the fact that he ruined the mood by using your own words against you.

Herman chuckled and leaned down to kiss your forehead, "I love you too, my dear. Now, take your shower. I will clean the clothes."

"Are you sure?" You whispered whenever he kissed your lips, his arms moving up and down your bare sides, fingers slipping into the band of your stained underwear.

Separating from your addictive lips, Herman smiled his charming smile and nodded, "Of course."

After a few more shared kisses and caresses, Herman took your night time clothes and left you to shower and do your morning routine. He set the clothes to washing, covered the bed with a fresh sheet and got it set up for your liking. While you were still in the bathroom, he stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom and proceeded to ready himself for his surprise for you.

Taking off his shoes, belt and vest, he untucked his shirt and loosened some of the top buttons, checking to make sure his face was well shaved and his teeth shining perfectly. A man's gotta look good for his partner, you know, especially when they were on their period.

He waited on the edge of the bed for you, grinning in fondness when you practically drug your feet across the ground while walking into the bedroom, your head lowered and a towel loosely wrapped around you. You looked miserable and distressed, but he planned to change that. "Feeling better?"

You hummed and tilted your head upwards, gasping when you saw Herman sitting on the freshly made bed, his vest gone and shirt unbuttoned. "Oh-um..." Blushing, you then looked over and saw the heating pad laying prepped and plugged in on your side of the bed. So he wanted to do 'that'? "Herman, y-you didn't have to do all this, I... I'm sorry about earlier, I just... I..."

"Don't apologize," Herman stood from the bed and walked towards you, his hands encompassing your small figure and pulling it close, "I love doing this for you."

"But... It's your weekend, and I..."

"Have just made it all the more enjoyable? Yes, I agree," Herman smirked and leaned down to kiss you, slowly coaxing the edge of the towel from your hands so that he could pull it away and let it drop uselessly to the ground. "Mmm, you're so beautiful."

Moaning into the deep kiss, you push into him with your half naked body and shudder whenever he kneaded and massaged at the bits of flesh he had expertly learned cramped the most. It felt so good.

It took effort but Herman eventually stopped kissing you enough he was able to guide you to the bed where he had you lay down on your stomach after taking a few drinks of your favorite beverage. Then with your aching front laying pressed against the heating pad, he carefully crawled on top of you from behind and sat down against your lower thighs, his brown eyes staring lovingly at your flushed, gorgeous skin.

"Beautiful," He bent down and kissed your upper back, unable to resist ravishing your body as he put one hand over the other and pressed down against your lower back where the pain was at it's worst peak. You moaned and whimpered beneath him, looking so relaxed and at peace as he began massaging your throbbing, aching flesh.

"Feels so good," You whimpered, nuzzling into the pillows.

Herman smirked against your back and said in a promising whisper, "And it's going to feel so much better..."

Soon.

We need more of whumpees who are stressed, skittish and sleep-deprived and caretakers who know just the Secret Weapon to help them relax. They’ll be subtle about it, though, i.e. making idle conversation while casually carding a hand through Whumpee’s hair until A) Whumpee’s practically purring under their touch or B) They’re still trying to protest in little grumpy mumbles as they doze off. 

Bonus points if Whumpee later asks them how they knew something like that would put them to sleep and Caretaker plays dumb. “Oh, does it? I never noticed!”

Your Winter

6k • explicit • sheith

“Baby, you’re hurt,” Keith tuts, spotting the cloth bandages peeking out of Shiro’s tunic over his collarbone. “It’s—” “—Don’t you dare say just a scratch. Takashi Shirogane doesn’t wrap a goddamn scratch,” Keith scowls. “What in the hell happened?”

Galra Shiro, half-Galra Keith, established relationship, hurt/comfort with some mutual caretaking between mates ❤️ feat. reassuring heartbeats, purring, and gentle sex.

[Read the fic on AO3]

Sometimes home is a person

5k • gen • sheith

Five times Shiro and Keith stayed home sick to care for each other, and the time they skipped work just because.

Sniffle fic, caretaking, fluffy soft married sheith. 💟

[Read the fic on AO3]

Prompt 102

Jaskier is late to their spring meeting. Geralt races along the path of where he believes Jaskier would travel, asking as he goes, until he finally runs into the town where everyone knows who he's talking about. The weary bard that played two nights ago. He meant to perform again last night, his final hurrah before he continued along, but he had to call off the performance due to feeling ill. Geralt finds Jsakier's inn room, and Geralt opens the door and immediately smells the scent of illness. He sighs and sure enough, his bard is fast asleep in his bed, feverish. Geralt closes the door, and changes into comfortable clothing, and prepares for a few days of caring for his bard. He doesn't prepare for his bard to deliriously begin recounting the travels here. Apparently he's had quite the time trying to meet back up with Geralt. Bandits, a unicorn sighting, a bargain with a fae only interested in jars of bees, a wizard with a penchant for talking to his silverware, a lover who looked near-exactly like Jaskier so it felt "narcissistic" to "finish", and then a very vivid retelling of how he did still finish- Geralt can only pray some of the stories Jaskier begins telling are made up by his fever, but some of the details he remembers are making it harder to believe it's all fake. "But even through all the hardships, I knew I had to come back to you, because I love you, Geralt of Rivia." Geralt stares, stunned. "♪♫♪ Geralt of rivia... ♪♫♪ ♫♪♫ Never wanna be rid'o'ya... ♫♪♫" Okay maybe it's time to feed him some soup and put him to bed. "♪♫♪ Your eyes are yellowww.... ♪♫♪ ♫♪♫ You're my favorite fellowwwww... ♫♪♫" It's not as if it isn't flattering. It is. He just wishes it didn't sound like Jaskier was seconds away from being sick while singing it. "Geralt, I think I'm going to be sick-" FUCK- HIS BOOTS-

Prompt 128

In place of August Sixteenth, Promptapalooza 9/ Most people immediately assume Geralt would be annoyed by human ailments. Find them distracting, or burdensome. They assume that if Jaskier gets sick, the Witcher wakes him up at dawn and forces them to travel onward any ways. They spread rumors that Jaskier sews his own wounds when caught in a hunt. The people speak of the heartless witcher yelling at the bard for getting sick. Of course, it's all false. Couldn't be more false, actually. Jaskier woke up with a sniffle. Just a tiny sniffle. No big deal! And yet, Geralt noticed. Of course he noticed. Notices everything with those damn supersenses of his. "Geralt, the contract-" "Fuck the contract." "That archespore hasn't even taken me on a date yet." "Jaskier, lay down!" "I can sit up-" "LAY DOWN!" Jaskier has been stuck in a witcher-enforced bedrest for two days. Even if the sniffles became sneezes, and his throat began to get scratchy and sore. So what if he had a fever? So what if he felt like shit? He shouldn't be slowing Geralt down! But Geralt won't let him do anything but slow him down! "Not gonna tackle me to the bed?" "No, walking is good for you, in spurts." "How nice." "No, keep moving. Ten more minutes of walking." "In the room?" "You can lap the inn if you'd like." "Well, alri-" "No wait- It rained recently- Too cold and damp for you." "Says who?" "Says me. And your fever." "Geralt, it's been two days of nothing but laying!" "I thought you liked being in bed." "Yes! To fuck! To sleep! Not to lay and stare at you!" "I like staring at you." "FineI'llpacethefuckingroom-"

Or

Or

C is just as exhausted as A is and they're acting like that because they're too stubborn to admit how unwell they feel.

Character A is stuck with C, who is not their usual caretaker (Perhaps Caretaker B is away on business) when they get sick. They can already tell it’s going to be a pretty bad time, but C is less than sympathetic. “You’ll be fine, just take a nap and a Dayquil and tough it out! We’ve got work to do! Stop whining!” 

Eventually A stops mentioning how awful they feel. C assumes that means they’re getting better, if they’re not bringing it up. Until they find A passed out on the bathroom floor, boiling hot from their fever. 

(Bonus points if B finds out what happened and rushes home early – not just to nurse A back to health, but to rip the repentant C a new one.)

Broken, But Still Good

Been saving this one for the FTH 2024 posting. The dates are out! Fandom Trumps Hate 2024 creator sign-ups are February 5th-19th. Even if you don't sign-up, pop over to https://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com/ and reblog the auction calendar. Summary: Tim has a little too much to drink, and reveals more than he intended to about his mental state to Raylan Givens of all people. If only he could get Raylan to drop it... TW: PTSD, Drinking, for a complete list of content warning, check this out on AO3! I am AnneMcSommers over there, and the fic has the same title!

Tim had gotten drunk before, hell, he had drunk enough to kill a lesser man, and could still pass a field sobriety test because he had one hell of an alcohol tolerance. Well, he THOUGHT that he had one hell of a tolerance, but that was before he started drinking from a mason jar out in Harlan.

Tim had had homebrews before, who in a warzone hadn’t tried whatever shit they tried to pass off as alcohol, but could double as paint stripper?

Tim had not however considered that moonshine in a county that had been making it since prohibition would be a special kind of drunk, and he wouldn’t have admitted to anyone that he had gone far past his limit.

Raylan had all but poured him into the car, and Tim held it together all the way to his apartment even as the alcohol continued to hit him. He kinda wished that he was one of those people who puked, because at least then he could have thrown up before leaving the bar, so he wasn’t more drunk getting out of the car, than getting into it.

Tim had made it a whole two steps towards the door, before he completely lost his shit. A car backfiring always put Tim on edge, but on that night, it had taken him right back, and he was unarmed. Before he had known what was happening, Raylan had a hold of him.

“It’s alright, Tim, you’re alright, you are in Kentucky, and it was just a car Tim. I promise, it was just a car,” Raylan soothed, and Tim was too drunk to keep himself properly upright, but he was not too drunk to realise he had fucked up somehow.

“It’s okay,” Tim had slurred. “I’m good, I’m good,” he had tried to reassure Raylan, but the more he spoke, the more worried Raylan had seemed to look as he walked Tim to his door. “Really Raylan, I’m okay. I can still shoot straight, really. I could shoot straight if I had to.”

Raylan had just frowned, picking up Tim’s housekeys when he dropped them. “Really, I could,” Tim had promised as Raylan unlocked his door.

It felt like Tim had blinked, and they were in his room, Raylan putting a glass of water on the nightstand, helping Tim with his buttons.

“I could shoot straight,” Tim had insisted, and Raylan sighed.

“You told me Tim, it’s okay now, go to sleep.”

Tim had known, KNOWN, that Raylan didn’t believe him, and said it again louder. “I can still shoot straight Raylan.” Tim had stumbled forward, and Raylan caught him, even as he clung to the man’s shirt to keep himself upright. “I can still shoot straight, Raylan, you gotta believe me, I can handle it, I can still shoot.”

Raylan had looked really sad as he answered, “I believe you Tim, now why don’t we get you to bed, and we can talk more about shooting in the morning, okay.”

Tim didn’t remember going to bed, but he did remember how he had woken up the next morning with his head pounding in a way it hadn’t since high school, the sun far brighter than it should have been if he had woken up like usual.

When Time had seen it was 11 am, he’d have leapt out of bed if he hadn’t seen the note. Tim had squinted at in in the bright light coming through his windows but managed to make out that he had been called out of work sick, he was to drink the water, take the aspirin, and eat something.

Tim’s stomach had twisted, and if he had been able to throw up, he would, because FUCK. He had taken the aspirin, drank the water, and headed into the bathroom to drown himself in the shower, where he stayed until the water went cool.

Remembering the night before was brutal, and he had thought he would get a reprieve before he had to deal with the shitstorm he created, but opening the bathroom door to the smell of eggs cooking let him know he wasn’t so fucking lucky.

Raylan had made eggs, toast, bacon, and Tim had been glad it went down without coming back up. He had finally managed to get Raylan out of his apartment after the man made about half a dozen subtle and not so subtle references to the night before, and if he weren’t so mortified it may have been touching.

Tim had spent the better part of a week doing everything he could to avoid Raylan, who seemed bound and determined to discuss things. Art had not, to Tims knowledge at least, seem to have clocked what was going on exactly, but that if Raylan didn’t drop it eventually, then it was going to become a thing, and that was the last thing Tim needed, for Art to be worrying about him MORE than usual.

To Tim’s eternal relief, Raylan had eventually dropped it. Everything was fine for a few weeks, back to normal, or at least close to it, and then they went to pick up a suspect at the no tell motel. The guy was huge, and shoved Tim faster than Tim was able to pull his weapon. Tim took header down an entire flight of stairs, and even he had to admit he got off easy given that he had missed most the stairs and just kind of dropped from a floor up.

A mild concussion, and a broken arm, it wasn’t much but it was his shooting hand and Tim was going to be out of commission for two months while it healed. Tim was antsy before the doctor even finished. “How long before I can go back to work?”

“Full duty, you are looking at two and a half, three months depending on the physio,” the doctor reeled off like it was nothing.

“Three months, for a broken arm?” He had broken it like three or four times as a kid, and it had not been three months.

“Two months for the cast, and then time after that to regain the muscle strength and dexterity. Ten days off as a minimum to start for the concussion, then we can re-evaluate and see if desk duty would be an option. If you press too hard though, it could be longer.”

Tim was trying not to freak out. “When can I get out of here?”

“In an hour or so, if you have someone to take you home.”

Tim froze, and he had never been more relieved to hear Raylan Givens voice. “His ride is already here.”

Raylan helping him up top his place was a little too close to what happened a few weeks back, and as much as Tim wanted the man to leave, there really was no way to kick someone else out of your place who was trying to help you.

Tim was saved by Raylan’s phone ringing.

It was Art, Raylan was needed in Miami for an old case ASAP, something about a retrial, but Tim was fuzzier than he wanted to admit. Raylan had gone through the whole thing, but all Tim got from it was that Raylan was going gone for a week at least.

Raylan stilled at the door, and Tim knew that he was going to dread whatever came out of the man’s mouth next.

“Fuck.”

Tim didn’t want to ask but felt obliged. “What?”

“I just got this new house plant,” Raylan explained, turning towards Tim, and Tim knew what came next.

“If you’re gonna be back in a week, shouldn’t it be fine,” Tim asked. He didn’t know much about gardening, but he thought it was a weekly thing.

“Usually, yes, but it’s this stupid tropical thing, it doesn’t get watered, it gets, misted or whatever, every day. I didn’t want the damn thing, and now I am gonna kill it. Shit, is there any chance you could water it?” Raylan asked, and Tim wanted to say no.

He felt like shit, his head was swimming, and getting over to Raylan’s to mist a fucking plant was going to be nightmare. Tim made the mistake of looking at Raylan, who was pulling full puppy dog eyes. Tim opened his mouth to say no, and said, “Ya, sure. Just leave the instructions by the plant.”

Raylan gave him a wide grin, and Tim felt a little better than he had five minutes ago, as he took possession of Raylan’s spare key.

“Thank you, Tim, really, I appreciate it,” Raylan told him. Tim regretted saying yes before the door was even closed.

Some days it took two hours for Tim to get out a bed, but he did, because he wasn’t going to be the reason Raylan’s plant dies. So, he got up and made his way across town, on the bus at first, so that he could mist Raylan’s plant.

There was a spray bottle, and “spray 6-8 times” until moist” written on a napkin with marker, in Raylan’s handwriting. The plant was ugly as fuck, and Tim had not idea why the man wanted it to live, but he had told Raylan he would water the plant, and he was going to water the fucking plant, even if something that hideous shouldn’t be allowed to thrive.

Two days before Raylan got back into town, Tim slipped getting out of the shower, hit his arm, and ended up back in the hospital needing surgery, or so he was told when he woke up.

Raylan was the one who did the telling, because apparently Tim had been out of it for a few days. They were talking a few minutes before the reality of what happens hits Tim.

“Fuck, Raylan, I killed your plant,” Tim said, interrupting the man mid-sentence.

“It’s okay Tim, really,” Raylan replied, and it was too quick for it to be genuine.

Tim doesn’t think Raylan really got it. “No, it’s fucked up. I fucked up. Fuck, I can’t work, for who knows how long now. I can’t get out of a shower without hurting myself, and now, NOW, I can’t even keep a plant alive. What fucking good am I?”

“Tim, you’re good. I promise you, even if you can’t shoot, you’re worth something, you got me?” Raylan’s voice was rough with something, but Tim couldn’t get past his own mistakes.

“I still killed your plant,” he argued.

“It’s plastic,” Raylan replied, and Tim blamed the drugs for not quite getting it.

“What?”

“The plant, it’s plastic,” Raylan explained, and Tim wondered what they had him on.

“I don’t understand, why the hell would you get me to water a plastic plant?”

Raylan was kind of red, and as it spread to the man’s ears, Tim realised that Raylan was blushing. He had never seen Raylan blush before.

“You were so upset, that night. You know, about being able to do something, and I wanted to make sure when I left you, that you had something you could do, and watering my plant was the first thing I could think of, but I didn’t have one. So, I, uh, picked up one at that dollar general, but it was plastic.”

“You really think I’m that pathetic?” Tim asked, and he regretted it immediately. Fucking drugs.

“No, I don’t. I think you’re great Tim, not just cause you can shoot, or do the job, because you’re funny, and sometimes you’re the best part about being in Kentucky. I just wanted to do something to make you feel better.”

“Sounds like you’re sweet on me,” Tim joked, uncomfortable with the praise.

Raylan blushed again, but the sarcastic comment didn’t come.

“Raylan, are you sweet on me?” Tim asked, and he was half joking, half serious.

Raylan kept his eyes on his boots. “It doesn’t have to be a thing. Despite popular opinion, I can control myself. I’m sorry for lying to you, you know, about the plant. I’ll just, uh, make myself scarce.”

Tim considered pinching himself to make sure he was awake, but despite the drugs, he was still feeling enough to know that this was real, and this was happening. Raylan was leaving, fuck. Tim reached out to stop the man from leaving and pulled at his sore muscles. He stopped, letting out a pained gasp.

Raylan was back the bedside in an instant, leaning over Tim. “You alright, you need me to get a doctor?”

Tim reached up and cupped the back of Raylan’s head, pulling him down into a kiss. Raylan pulled away, looking unsure. “Tim?”

“Never occurred to me you’d feel the same way,” he admitted, feeling his own face go warm.

“Darlin,” Raylan started, “I think you underestimate just how pretty you are.”

Tim ignored the pain, pulling himself against Raylan with his good arm and drawing him into a searing kiss.

Tim’s arm was still broken, but all of a sudden, the whole thing didn’t seem so bad after all.

So, I just got a really bad sunburn at the beach recently. It’s been a long time since I’ve been burned that badly, and it made me think about whump OBVIOUSLY. I think I have a problem, lol.

Imagining a Whumpee getting a punishment where they have to be strapped down or tied up outside in the direct sunlight so that they get burned all day long until the sun goes down. Especially with how hot it’s been recently, being stuck in 100+ degree weather is not fun. Of course that’s whumpy enough, but what got me thinking about it so much was the recovery.

You have to deal with your hot skin and feeling sore all over. Especially if Whumper is merciless and doesn’t allow you to have creams and lotions to care for the burns. Your skin peeling everywhere, it might even be painful to peel if Whumpee has open wounds or scabs. Feeling very itchy within the first week of recovery and having to fight the urge to scratch otherwise your skin will burn and sting. Imagining Whumper yanking on Whumpees hair when their scalp is burned and sensitive.

Maybe it wasn’t a normal world like Earth either, or a non-human/immortal Whumpee. Having a world that has two suns could make it worse. Maybe Whumpee is highly sensitive to sunlight and their skin is capable of burning off their body. What if that planet on very specific days gets exposed to flares from the sun that can actually get past the atmosphere layers. Just a scorching hot planet where if you walk on your bare feet, your skin will melt and peel away.

Whumper might actually appreciate the recovery process because it gives them chances to develop a bond with Whumpee through rewards and gentle care that they only get after taking punishments. Or they can use it as a way to inflict more pain. Taking Whumpee a cold ice bath or even a steaming hot one can hurt their skin a lot. Scrubbing away at the dead skin with a harsh scrubber or a file of some sort.

Is it obvious I hate sunburns?

- 🪻

Date: July 8, 2024

My cup of tea.. 🖤🤍🖤🤍

He was hiding.

It was shameful.

Ingo knew that but the noises of the bustling station and rumbling rails hurt deep inside his bones.

Overstimulated.

That’s what the therapist would say.

Ingo didn't think it used to happen.

Not before.

Or at least not as often.

So he was hiding, standing off to the side and in the shadows, barely holding it together. Tearing apart at his badly worn seams after having stitched himself together over and then over again. He'd always been observant. Had to be. Both here in the subway and back in Hisui.

But he was exhausted from being on alert all the time. From stringing together all his missing pieces by reading between the lines of Emmet's telling silences. His head ached. He was exhausted. Still, the trains ran.

The rails roared.

Ingo hid.

“Um, e’excuse me?” The passenger before him looked uncertain; hands clutching, worrying, the straps of their bag in such a way that laid bare their nervousness. “I’ve. I’m. I missed.” Young. Eyes glossed thick with tears. It took him too long to parse out what they were trying to say, syllables clashing together in his ears like the echoes of footsteps down a long corridor. If Ingo hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought they’d been speaking the language of another region. He tilted his head, closed his eyes. Willed himself to understand as they continued their stilted explanation, thankfully unaware of the Subway Master’s current struggle.

Ah.

A missed connection.

And here they’d caught him without use of his words, mouth gaping uselessly when he went to reassure them that this was an error easily fixed. Reflexively, Ingo passed a closed fist across his chest in apology, guiding the passenger towards a nearby depot agent with a hand at the small of their back. From the corner of his eye, Ingo saw them watch, fascinated, as he conveyed the issue through sign, apologizing again.

“Not a problem, Boss Ingo.” The agent flashed him a kind grin. “I’ll sort this out in a jiff.” Ingo nodded in thanks, patting the youth gently on the head and offering them his version of a smile before returning to his post.

It was his own stubborn resolve that forbade him returning to their shared office.

“--Ngo!” He surfaced from the bottom of a deep well to Emmet repeating his name. Not touching. They’d learned the hard way that Ingo couldn’t stand to be touched when he was like this. Not until he'd come back from wherever he'd gone anyway. Sluggish, his eyes slipped from Emmet’s face to his Noble. Traitor. Though he couldn’t be mad. He’d needed help. She’d fetched it. “Hullo!” Forced cheer and a megawatt grin.

He’d been back for months. At work for weeks.

Struggling for days.

Why now did it feel as though everything was impossible? Emmet’s smile softened in understanding.

“We will go home.” Ingo shook his head, already halfway to the office by the time his untrustworthy mind sorted out what his younger brother was saying, words still caught somewhere in the short length of his throat. Lady Sneasler chirped in worry when he went to fingerspell with shaky hands and Emmet only paused in his stride to hold them still as the crowd broke easily around them, like water flowing around stones. “It is alright.” He continued to reassure, speaking slowly and signing alongside when Ingo had visible trouble keeping up. “You are not well.” And when that didn’t work, “you promised.” Though the sting of his reminder was tempered by the brush of a palm beneath the brim of his cap. “Yup. Not at all.”

Oh.

Is that why he felt so tired? Eyes hot and skin clammy? That made a certain amount of sense. It wouldn't be the first time Ingo pushed through an illness without noticing. Drove Calaba and Irida and Melli up cliffs. Ingo's chest felt hollow with remembering. Filled up with sorrow and loss and for once he allowed it to derail him.

Gently, Emmet guided Ingo down to the office couch, displacing at least half a dozen Joltik on the way, and coaxed him into taking some medicine before starting the somewhat lengthy process of buttoning up the station.

Cool hands woke him and Ingo only felt worse for his nap, head packed with Jumpluff fluff and thoughts sticky and slow like Combee honey. The tickle in his throat blossomed into a cough and tumbled into a choking fit, those same hands pushing him forward so he could catch his breath. He whimpered low when moving hurt, a thousand aches lighting up like there were pinpointed Swift stars at the ends of each of those careful fingers. Water touched his lips, soothed the threat of another attack.

“Ingo?” His own name nearly slipped away from him and he didn’t catch what followed, too disorientated by the change in gravity as he was lifted into Lady Sneasler’s capable claws. So he drifted. Accepted the pills offered up with another swallow. Turned his face away from the noise and the harsh concussions of too many consonants and into soft warm fur and the comforting beat of his Lady’s heart.

“Thank you, Elesa.” Absent-mindedly, Emmet tried to keep hold of his manners while directing Lady Sneasler in loading his older brother into the gym leader's car. She hushed him, buckling Ingo in from the other side before removing his cap and gloves. Though his complaint was nearly soundless, his shivering was profound, and Elesa spared the time to card delicate fingers through his silver hair. “This came on so quickly.” Emmet fussed, tucking his own station master jacket around Ingo’s shoulders and pressing the back of his hand against a hot cheek, smile wan when rewarded with a brief flash of gray.

“He’ll be okay, just a bad flu or something, I’m sure of it, Emmet.” He wasn’t convinced, fretting a moment more before tugging Ingo into his arms. Lady Sneasler folded herself into the seat beside, mindful of her claws and the delicate upholstery and Elesa tapped her driver on the shoulder, sparing a glance at the packed backseat. “Clinic, please.”

“Breathe in.” Emmet mimed with his hands, holding Ingo’s bleary gaze like a lifeline as the doctor passed the smooth diaphragm of the stethoscope over the scarred planes of his back. Behind them Elesa nibbled her thumbnail, leaning against the wall and watching in worry. “Again.” It was the second time she’d listened in that spot, expression creased but unreadable. Sneasler chuffed impatiently as her Warden shivered in the thin gown. Next, she removed the earpieces, slinging the whole instrument around her neck, before bending close and thumping her fingers alongside his spine.

“Well??” Ingo jumped at Emmet’s demanding tone and Emmet couldn’t find it in himself to feel too badly about it, not when he needed answers and Ingo desperately needed rest. She indicated his folded clothes set aside for the exam, stepping aside to wash her hands as Emmet helped guide Ingo back into his undershirt and button down. With a groan, his forehead came to rest in the hollow between his younger brother’s neck and shoulder as he finished up the buttons.

“As long as the fever is manageable with medication, he can recover at home.” She fixed them both with a stern look. "If you can't get it down or he becomes confused or has trouble breathing, call an ambulance."

“Emeh–” Ingo coughed, deep and painful and wet, muffled breathlessly against Emmet’s collarbone and behind closed lips, sliding limp fingertips from his ear to the corner of his ever-present frown before his hand dropped listless in his lap.

“I am Emmet. We will go home.” Ingo shuddered, burrowing closer.

“Before you leave, I’d like to administer an antiviral.”

“Another delay?” Elesa held up her hand in a placating gesture, motioning for Emmet to be calm and wait.

“Just how long would that take, Doctor?”

“Fifteen minutes or so. Long enough for his additional prescriptions to be filled here at our pharmacy. I really do think it would be for the best, considering how hard these symptoms are hitting him.”

“Emmet?”

“If you think it will help.”

“I do.” She nodded. Decisive. “He can lay down for the procedure, I’ll be right back.”

Both Emmet and Lady Sneasler grew increasingly concerned (agitated) when the physician couldn’t find a suitable vein in Ingo’s arm. Dehydration. Not uncommon, she explained, with the flu, they would just add some IV fluids at the same time. That would go a long way to making him feel better and he didn’t even have to move. Could just stay where he was curled loosely against Emmet, watching through half-lidded eyes limned with shadow as the doctor slid the catheter home into the top of his hand, securing it with tape before patting it gently.

“You just rest for a few moments, Subway Boss Ingo.” Elesa followed her out with the intention of completing the necessary paperwork, leaving the twins and Lady Sneasler to their quiet. The large Pokemon wasted no time in butting up to Ingo’s other side, stoking her engine and grooming his face with gentle swipes of her rough tongue. He sighed, the remaining rigidity in his trembling frame melting away pressed as he was safe between them.

“Careful, just here.” Emmet helped Ingo sit on the rim before dipping his hand into the tub to test the temperature of the water. Not too hot, not cold enough he’d catch a chill.

“Can. I can…do it.” Eyes still closed, Ingo plucked at his buttons with clumsy fingers.

“I am Emmet!” He rolled up his own sleeves before lending his assistance. “Of course you can!” Emmet braced his brother when he threatened to tip sideways. “But some help would be nice, right?” Slipped his socks off with one hand, trousers next, helping Ingo swing his legs into the tub, the one with the stiff hip giving them both some trouble. Elesa was putting together a simple meal and feeding their Pokemon while Emmet helped Ingo in the bath. He was sleepy, mumbling soft incoherent things as Emmet worked shampoo into his hair and rinsed, tipping his head back over his arm to keep soap out of his eyes. “Nice, hm?”

“...Nice.” Emmet chuckled, swiped a damp cloth over his shoulders, cataloging the scars there, ones he knew nothing about, and cleansed away the last of the fever sweat. Dried with the fluffiest towels they had and dressed in the softest of his pajamas, Ingo sipped Elesa’s soup from his mug all bundled up on the couch, nearly nodding off listening to the conversation happening around him.

“Could’ve brushed his hair, Emmy. He's as shaggy as a Shaymin.” Manicured nails scratched lightly over his scalp and Ingo leaned into her touch. “Little Nuzzleleaf here.”

“Elesa, no.”

“Ingo used Cuddle.” She lifted the ceramic out of his hands before he dropped it in favor of falling into her lap, hoping for more attention and very handsomely rewarded.

“Nooo.”

“It’s super effective!” Emmet whined.

“This is verrry bad.” Ingo chuffed at Emmet's discomfort, the traitor. “You are going to make him worse with all your bad jokes!!"

Ingo didn’t know what woke him. Perhaps Little Lady or Mirage rustling around the yurt, but he felt pinned like one of the Professor’s specimens by the heavy exhaustion in his limbs. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the dark and his breath caught in his chest, painful, like taking a Focus Punch to the ribs.

Where was this place?

It. This wasn’t. The walls weren’t the right shape. Or the right height and the shadows. All. Everything was wrong. Gone were the soft shapes of his yurt, replaced with the odd geometry literally boxing him in with its four strong barricades.

Ingo wrinkled his nose against the odd smell of this place and tried to rise, heel of his hand pressed to one aching temple, only to fall off of the raised platform he’d been sleeping upon and into the arms of Lady Sneasler herself.

“Lady, I. There is.” He was cut off by a harsh fit of coughing and she braced him through it, concern clear in her expressive face. “I. This–” Ingo cut himself off in frustration, anger. Everything was muddled, confusing. He hurt, felt ill, weak. What had he allowed to happen to himself? How could he put his Noble in such danger?

He had to get them out. Escape this prison. Even as he shook with cold and wasn't all that certain he could stand unaided.

Where were his clothes? What was he wearing? Thin things. Unfamiliar things the color of night sky. His shoes had been taken. Pearl Clan tunic nowhere in sight now that his blurry vision was becoming somewhat adjusted to the darkness.

It was a room. Sparse. Unknown. He staggered on newly hatched Stantler legs, grasping the offered claw to steady himself.

“Ingo?” A sharp line of light cracked one dark wall in two. A stranger silhouetted in flickering purple flame. “We heard– what is wrong?”

Sneasler could see the moment it all broke bad in the air thick with tension between the twins. The mistrust and disbelief that bloomed in her Warden’s face at home with the flush high in his cheeks. His accusation a damning whisper.

“Zoroark?”

“Wha– no!” Emmet stepped forward, hands up, open, and Ingo, her brave and ever stalwart guardian, stepped between.

“Stay back!”

“Okay, I can do that, yup, I am Emmet. You are Ingo.” The younger offspring stepped back, now framed in the doorway. Chandelure peeked over his shoulder in concern. “You have not been well.”

“We are leaving.” Ingo’s strength was waning; sweat darkened the hair at his temples and dripped from his chin with the effort of standing.

“No!”

It was the wrong move.

Ingo leapt, a coiled spring, shoving his brother aside hard and casting frantically around for an exit in the home he no longer recognized, and she followed, afraid of what might happen should he disappear from her sight. He collided with the door, using it to hold himself up, grasping at the knob and fumbling with the now unfamiliar locking mechanism all while buying Emmet precious seconds to pick himself up off the floor.

“Chandelure! Hypnosis!”

“Lu’lure?” Her hesitation was Ingo’s freedom and the bang of the door was loud as Lord Electrode’s Self Destruct as they left the pair behind them.

Ingo slowed, stumbled to a stop, his breath ragged and wet in her ears. The acrid smell of the adrenaline on his skin faded as he pulled her into one of the small green spaces next to the dark path. For a brief moment, it made her heart long for open sky and the swathes of green nestled between mountain peaks. The cries of familiar Pokemon carried on the breeze instead of the rumbling roar of metal machines. She’s jolted out of her reverie by her Warden all but collapsing to the ground, tucked into the shadows of a small shrub she didn’t recognize and shaking fit to fly apart.

“My Lady…” She settled in beside him, lending her warmth to his feverish body. He relaxed into her with a cough, a shallow, hard-won wheeze, and the scent of illness enveloped her senses. Thick. Cloying. It wasn’t good for her human to be out here in this cold. Not when he was so sick.

“Snea.” Said softly, placating.

“Need to.” He swallowed, wilting. Flickering. “Figure…wh’where…”

They needed help and she made to stand, laying a claw on him as a message to stay put, dismayed when Ingo merely clung to her.

“L’Lady…please, please stay. Cannot, I cannot–” cut off by violent chills, the rest of whatever he was going to say choked by groans of pain between clenched teeth. Sneasler didn’t know what to do. She could track her way back, they hadn’t gotten far, not in her Warden’s condition. He’d been so scared when he bid them run. So confused and upset. Trying to keep her safe. Gently, she licked his too-hot face, smoothed back his sweat damp hair with her sandpaper tongue as he pleaded with her to stay, please stay.

But her Warden needed humans. They would know what to do with their medicines and rituals. Like that wrinkled old female from the Pearl Clan. Like how the strange humans in white coats had cared for him when they first arrived in this strange place.

“Snea, snea…” She tried to soothe, to explain, nuzzling the pulsepoint in his neck. But his trembling fingers tangled in her fur and while she could easily dislodge him, it seemed cruel to do so. Ingo’s littermate would be beside himself by now considering what happened between them. He never liked it when Ingo drifted too far out of his sight.

“Stay, stay, stay…” Words a garland strung along a shuddering breath, eyes bright, overflowing, with tears, begging her to stay here where it was safe. Where he could keep her safe and when he finally succumbed to the heady combination of fever and weariness she apologized in her way before taking off to find Emmet.

She had to go. Had to bring him here.

Emmet crashed hard to his knees, cradling Ingo’s unresponsive face in both hands before freeing one to call an ambulance. Under the incandescence, like a steam engine beneath his palm, he detected a languid heartbeat, slow and thready. Ingo gasped, breathing agonized and labored.

“Ingo? Brother?” He shook his head, panic blooming in the shaky smile across his face. “I am Emmet, you are okay. I am here, I am here, Ingo, I am here and everything is going to be alright.” Sneasler’s sensitive ears picked up on the klaxons heading towards them at speed. “Lady…he is. He is so hot.” Distraught, fear scent rolling off him in waves, Emmet ran his thumb over the bone of Ingo’s cheek. “I knew. Knew he was not feeling one hundred percent operational, and I–” He couldn’t tear his eyes away, as though Ingo might vanish. “Ingo, please.” No response. So deeply unconscious he didn’t so much as twitch when Emmet tipped him into his arms. Shadows hung cavernous and deep below each eye above cheeks painted with the bright, hectic flush of fever. The damp, furnace heat of him sweltering through both their sets of clothes. Emmet boxed up the panic threatening to overwhelm him and put it out of his mind. He’d be no good to Ingo if he lost it. “Soon, now. Soon now, and it will be alright.”

“Sneasler snea.” The Noble echoed his tone, ear twitching in the direction of the oncoming sirens.

Emmet had to grab Sneasler by both arms to keep her from attacking the emergency personnel lifting Ingo onto the gurney and out of their sight when they would not let them follow.

“Lady, they will help. They will help him.” He provided the name of the hospital and promised her they would meet him there but there wasn’t room in the ambulance for the both of them no matter how badly Emmet wanted to go with.

The scene in the hospital room was chaos.

Ingo, surrounded by staff, was huddled in a ball at the head of the hospital bed, fingers clasped over his ears, eyes wide and unseeing as he rocked and shook. Someone was talking, hushed and calm, trying to coax him off the ledge.

But he was panicking, his hoarse voice crying out for Lady Sneasler, the beating of his heart like a scream over the monitor.

“Shh, shh, Brother.” Emmet rushed forward, gathering him up, fragile and light and this somehow both was and wasn’t his Ingo. “You have to breathe. Your Lady is here. She is safe. You are safe.” He let Ingo sob against his shoulder, glaring at the doctors and daring them to try and separate them. Lady Sneasler bathed his face with her sandpaper tongue until there was no more than the occasional shuddery, exhausted inhale. Emmet was sweating where Ingo’s body was pressed against his own, chin resting on his shoulder. Chest to chest, Emmet could feel each struggling attempt for air, each overheated exhale humid and fast against his pulsepoint. “Okay. Alright. I am Emmet and you are alright.”

“Whe…” gasping, deadweight. “Lady Irida…Cal–” he was gearing up for another panic attack, Emmet could feel it in his bones, the way his muscles twitched and jumped beneath his hot skin. “Who’re…? Em?” A nurse stepped forward, mindful of the large Pokemon towering over him, a promise in his sympathetic expression and a needle in his hand.

“This will help.”

Hidden and still beneath hospital sheets and ice packs, Ingo was nearly a stranger. Still Emmet stayed with him. It did not matter that Ingo had not recognized him. It did not matter that he ran. He was sick. Confused.

And it was Emmet’s fault.

Gently, as though he were made of glass, he traced the myriad scars. Some he knew. Some he didn’t. A nurse pushed another round of cool fluids in an attempt to stem the tide of whatever it was ravaging Ingo. The sound of heels clacking on the tile heralded the fall of tears from his eyes.

“Emmet, I came as quick as I could.” Elesa framed his face in her soft hands, urging him to look at her. “Arceus, are you okay? Emmet?”

“They. They do not know what is wrong.” His voice cracked. “Elesa, they. Do not know how to fix it.”

He was going to lose him and he’d only just been found.

Ingo didn’t wake when Elesa brushed her fingers over his hot, dry skin. He was an engine overheated with coals banked and burning inside the cage of his ribs like a furnace. Familiar panic gripped Emmet in its angry fist as his eyes remained fixed to Ingo’s inert face. It was hours before they saw any change, before the efforts of the hospital staff made any difference. They watched his head loll to the side and a sliver of washed out gray appear between barely parted lashes underscored by ink-dark shadows. Ingo swallowed, tongue darting out to wet chapped lips.

“Emme’– ” Breath stolen, Ingo struggled to get it back.

“You know me?”

“Mm.” Ingo didn’t need to be reminded that he’d run from his brother in a blinding panic almost a day ago. It wouldn’t help anyone, least of all the pair of them. Instead, he pressed a cold cloth against the galloping pulse in his neck, offering up a spoonful of ice chips for his dry throat. “‘M…”

“You don’t need to talk.” Soft and low, Elesa smoothed his hair back, pressing her lips to his blazing forehead.

An alarm chirped, some monitor attached to one of the many leads, lines, tracing a map that Emmet could not follow.