"satoru, for heaven's sake, stop worrying so much," you snap weakly. "if anything's gonna kill me, it'll be my head from how bad it's killing me right now."

gojo sighs deeply and presses a thumb to the scrunch of your brow, smoothing it with gentle applications of pressure. "i don't like seeing you like this," he murmurs.

you make an effort to smile, to show him that you're fine aside from the fact that your nose is blocked and your chest spasms every time you cough.

"you haven't eaten anything," he notes aloud, slipping his phone out of the right pocket of his sweatpants. "what're you feeling like?"

"pizza."

"no greasy food, it'll make it worse."

"then you don't really care about what i feel like having," you grumble.

"i always care," he protests, leaning down to kiss your nose even as you sniffle. "but i'm not sentencing you to death."

"it's not death—ugh, fine. get sushi or something."

he scrolls for a bit before adding an assortment of cooked sushi and a large serving of miso soup—any leftovers means he'll have something to save you with if your condition gets worse.

when you scramble under the blankets and bring your hand up to your mouth before letting out a wet cough, gojo's brows furrow and he snatches a few antibacterial wipes. with a tender touch, he wipes your hands clean before scrunching it in his hand and shooting it into the bin across the room with exemplary precision.

you let out a weak laugh and kick him again. "get off my couch before i cough in your face."

"if it means taking the pain for myself," he declares loudly, dramatically, spreading his arms wide as if preparing to engulf you in a hug, "i shall remain here."

#SUGURU GETO────before your throat infection, you never understood why 'croaking' was a word used to describe manners of human speech. of course, now that you sound like a raspy frog with every uttered syllable, you have less difficulty understanding it.

"sounding like a frog isn't all bad," geto assures you softly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "you sound cute."

you're not convinced by his blinded reasoning and continue to swallow thickly, cringing and shivering when the sore lump in your throat seems to swell with every bob of your adam's apple.

you don't even wanna talk. you physically can't without having to psych yourself up so as to not absolutely beat yourself up over the fact that it pains you to even breathe air and open your mouth. and here geto was, telling you that you sounded cute.

shaking your head, you bundle up in the blankets, pulling them over your head and immediately back down to your chest when you practically suffocate yourself.

the scent of chamomile wafts into your nostrils, but your sinuses have been so numbed by your throat infection that it's more of a faint aroma. he helps you sit up first, one hand on your lower back and the other on your knee.

"you're okay, my love. just be consistent with what i'm giving you and you'll be better in no time." even though he's being so gentle, so understanding, you can't help but feel like a slug, like an incapable little bed bug. the thought makes your nails dig into your palm as you let him bring the mug to your parted lips.

geto notices the tension in your shoulders and runs a hand up and down your arm. "don't stress. i know you feel useless right now, but don't. it's not your fault, and you're gonna get better, okay?"

reluctantly, you nod, because you're admittedly being soothed by the feeling of his hand on your skin and the warm, almost sultry tone of his voice. you open your mouth to respond and pay the price immediately, feeling a pain imitating that of a knife wound shoot through your throat.

"okay, okay, no talking. just drink up, my love." he raises the mug to your lips again and you drink, comforted by the sting that results from the tea's heat tackling your infection.

when it becomes evident to him that you're starting to recover, albeit gradually, he smiles and leans in, lips brushing against your forehead. "my strong girl," he murmurs fondly, before sitting back to resume guiding the tea into your system.

#KENTO NANAMI────nanami is no stranger to headaches, not with his line of work, and his experience did him a great service in providing him just the right advice and help to give you. because nanami was going to do anything but watch you squirm and wince from the pain in your head.

with you huffing and wavering on your feet, he guides you upstairs and tucks you into bed, switching the lights off to rid you of having to withstand the bright lights. and within minutes, he's brewed some caffeinated tea and brought it up on a wooden tray, alongside a tall glass of water, a small tube of pain killers, and a hot-pack to hold to your head—well, for him to hold to your head. he wouldn't expect you to do it yourself.

"here, drink this so you can focus on hydration after. a little caffeine will do you good," he advises you gently, bringing the mug up for you to drink from at your own leisure.

drink up you do, because the last thing you want to do when you have a splitting headache is decide what's best for you. that's what having nanami is all about—having a dedicated and reasonable decision maker. if you overlook the fact that you're literally in love, because you don't want to think about love while you're trying to hold your head together.

"help me," you groan, as if he isn't actively helping you.

he doesn't respond, simply lets you drink the tea and walks over to your closet to grab a thin scarf, which he then ties tightly around your head, the pressure alleviating some of the pain.

nanami has fallen completely silent aside from his breathing, and it's irking you in a way you're not proud of. everything is a problem when you're unwell, and while you won't act like you don't feel this way, it's not the greatest look, and that fact just makes you frustrated with yourself.

"you can talk, you know. i'm not gonna explode."

nanami's lip quirks up in a smile or an expression of uncertainty—you're not sure which. "well, i know that talking can worsen things. i'm just hoping that you'll relax, so i assumed silence in a dark room would help you along."

it is helping. that's why your eyes are already heavy, already having found the urge to sleep even though you were just clutching your head and wailing from the pain a few minutes ago.

damn it, why is he so good at this?

"at least sleep next to me, kento. dark and silent sounds like a recipe for murder."

he laughs softly at that and guides you onto your back on the bed, situating himself on his side with only the smallest amount of space between you. he begins massaging your temples with his thumbs and it takes no more than a minute for you to be soothed and fall asleep.

#TOJI FUSHIGURO────toji does not consider himself a patient man. hell, if he had to deal with half of the crap you do from someone else, he'd cut his ears off and call it a day. he doesn't like, doesn't know, how to take care of someone, especially not when they're ill.

except, he'll try if it's for you.

"did you have breakfast after i left?" he asks you, glancing up from his phone. you weren't particularly hungry when you woke up, so you promised him you'd have something later, which toji was sceptical of since him not being there to witness you eating was conveenient for you. suffering with anemia and yet you're always forgetting or simply refusing eat.

he gets it, low iron means low appetite. but can't you just try? scratch that thought, he knows you're trying, but it's hard on him as much as it is on you when he sees your lack of eating.

"...yes."

toji looks at you now, attention unwavering from your more-than-sheepish face. "why did that 'yes' come with hesitation?"

"because it, um... i had a sandwich and it was boring, and i already wasn't really hungry so now... i just don't have an appetite. at all."

so your shaky legs weren't just something he imagined. it's 6pm and you haven't had anything to eat since your measly sandwich 9 hours ago. he's so tempted to stick your head in the fridge and shove whatever he can find at you.

"are you serious—"

berating you while you sit there with your eyes closed and your body swaying from the lack of nutrition seemed unfair, but if you weren't gonna take yourself seriously, why should he not be allowed to call you out for it?

you're slumped against the arm of the couch now, moaning quietly.

his brow furrows, overflowing with concern he never envisioned himself feeling for someone, not even himself. talking to you is futile, you're too tired and weak to respond, so he does the only thing he can think of and walks over to scoop you up in is arms and set you on his lap when he sits down again. your head immediately finds his chest and you're seconds away from just letting yourself fall asleep to avoid your non-eating issue.

picking his phone up again, toji finds one of the numerous food delivery apps on his homepage and presses on it, angling the screen so that you can see all the restaurant options clearly. "c'mon, ma. just pick one. you don't have to move to eat or anything. i'll feed you myself." his voice is practically a whisper and you feel bad that he's even worrying about you at all, let alone to this degree.

so you stare at each bright option as he scrolls and eventually settle on one, indicating your choice with a slow nod of your head when his thumb lands on its vibrant digital poster.

he then lets you observe each and every food and beverage option they have, scrolling through the selection and awaiting the nod of your head.

when a few of the dishes and one of the drinks get your approval, he's ordering them without even adding anything for himself. still, without a word, he shows you the estimated delivery time and, once he's satisfied that you've read it and accepted it, lets you slump into his chest again.

his lips find the top of your head, the tension still yet to have left his brow. "think i need to keep you in my pocket at all times. can't have you doing this every day."

a groan sounds from you in response, making him aware that you're amused and tempted by the idea of being buried in the chasms that are his pockets.

#RYOMEN SUKUNA────"why must you insist on running about at night?" sukuna grumbles as he sits beside you, one leg bent to rest one of his lower arms on it. his scrutinous gaze is locked onto the damp towel on your forehead, supplied by the estate's healer. "look at you now. you've left my side to lay here like a leaf."

eyes squeezing shut, you sigh deeply and wince at the way your body temperature is doing nothing but escalating by the second. "quiet, ryomen. let me pass in peace."

his eyes narrow. "you are not set to pass, woman. not while you are mine."

the grating sound of the sliding doors sounds as the healer enters again with a deep bow. she kneels beside you and dunks a fresh towel into the wooden basin of water by your head, replacing the one on your brow. sukuna watches with engraving intensity, tensing with every movement that displeases him even slightly. he interferes directly when you whimper breathlessly at the sudden replacement, the dampness at your brow practically singing when it trickles into your pores.

"she shows no sign of improvement," sukuna states plainly, as though pestered by this whole ordeal.

the healer fears the idea of rebutting his belief, but she is reassured by your presence, though sickly and practically immobile. "my lady will be fully recovered in a week, my lord. i shall t-tend to her without fail."

with a low grunt, he allows the woman to lift your head just slightly, her hand supporting the weight as she lifts a metal cup of water to your lips, urging you to drink. she takes her leave after, sliding the door shut with a soft click of finality.

sukuna looks down at you then, his features slack with a subconscious display of indifference. "i suppose you derive pleasure from being doting on."

you scoff lightly. "who doesn't?"

your body begins doing wonderous things then, heat turning into a chill that is deep-set in your bones. dry lips turn into chattering teeth and shaky breaths as you try to contain the shivers and trembles that wrack your body.

sukuna's brow tenses, one of his upper hands brushing your hair out of your face to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, right between your eyebrows and just below the wet towel. when he begins slipping his kimono off, your eyes have already fallen shut again, letting him tend to you with worry that he does not have to mask while you are unseeing. he throws his kimono on your body and hears you whimper again.

"i hope to die just so that i may have you cry over me," you rasp.

Reiner

Eren

Levi

Armin

Connie

Jean