#fever tw

Matarys had been the first of the brothers to be struck by the sickness, though Valarr had not been entirely far behind. For days now, the two princes have been attended to, maesters tending to them, damp cloths for the fever, broth carefully spoon fed between parched lips, anything to try and make them more comfortable, to try and ease them back towards wellness. But where his brother has slept through a lot of the fever, sweet Matarys has not been quite so lucky.

The fever has wracked him, what little sleep he has managed to get tortured by nightmares, and the dark circles beneath his eyes stand prominently against sickly pale and clammy skin. At all of thirteen years old, the boy is terrified, lilac eyes glazed with fever and pricked with tears. As his grandsire brushes auburn hair back from sweaty forehead, Matarys lets out a shaky breath that devolves halfway into a cough that rattles his thin frame.

TW: Delirium, fever (symptoms described), mentioned pills (medicine, I swear)

What is this? It's the fluff snippet I promised my lovely nemesis @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 , and I really hope you enjoy this < 3 < 3

"Are you alright?"

The words seemed to snap the heroine abruptly out the void of her own muddled up thoughts, feeling as though her head were stuffed with cotton, everything an incoherent blur.

"Yes," she still answered back anyway, a trained response, one that stopped people from prying any further, from looking disappointed. It was the answer they really wanted to hear, even if it really disproved the question's validity.

Except the villain didn't smile, and he didn't leave the way he was supposed to. His brows were furrowed, and his arms were folded across his chest, and even though the hero didn't say anything, she just knew she didn't enjoy the sight.

She'd always hated it when he frowned, when he wasn't smiling, or wasn't even wearing the cocky smirk he always brought to their fights. She couldn’t tell what exactly in her response had warranted such a reaction from the criminal, but the guilt twisting knots at the pit of her stomach was very palpable.

As she stepped closer to him, pulling her rigid, aching muscles into a fighting stance; anything to distract him, the attempt hindered by her sluggish movements, all she'd managed to do was stumble towards him, losing her balance humiliatingly fast. It was only her luck that the villain's reflexes were still as razor-sharp as always, rapidly pulling her into his arms and steadying her with his weight.

And he was warm, and blissfully so, his grip firm but never unkind. As fervently as the crime-fighter wanted to lie down, the villain's embrace was comfortable, comfortable to the point that her train of thoughts, broken and destined to crash seemed to steady a bit, the world losing its edge of murkiness for just a moment.

Carefully, the villain pulled away and pressed his hand to her forehead, immediately retracting it away as if he'd been burnt. The guilt resurfaced again, an old, unwelcome demon resurrected, even more so as his frown deepened.

He let out a soft curse. "What were you thinking? Trying to fight when you're like this? You're burning up!" he interjected, his eyes wide, and a note of concern in his voice mixed in with the annoyance.

Except all her mind chose to focus on was the villain's choice of words to describe her state. 'Burning up', as he'd called it, didn't seem too far-fetched from the fire in her head, practically sizzling across her flushed skin, bile rising at the back of her irritated throat, her sore muscles burning with the pain, every movement agonising. Even if she couldn't see that she was burning, literally burning, it felt exactly as though she was.

"You're coming home with me, right now. Whatever ludicrous reason you might have for pulling this bloody stunt, I don't want to hear it," he stated, blunt as always, lifting the hero into a bridal carry almost as though it was second nature to him.

And in the midst of her delirious state, the hero hadn't memorised the route he'd taken home in his car, or how he'd accessed his lair, probably not being able to tell it was a lair as he carried her up into his actual residence. In a different state, the heroine's uncanny attention to detail would have engraved it all into her memory. She only registered the arms that were around her, and the pain that racked her body; her mind becoming too primitive to notice much beyond what she could physically feel.

Soon enough, she found herself being laid down on silk sheets. a thick blanket being drawn over her, and he took her temperature and he swore again, letting out a tired sigh. And just when the villain was about to leave the room. . ."D-don't g. . .go," she slurred, her fingers gripping onto his sleeve as firmly as she could manage.

"I'll just get a couple things for your fever. Won't take me long, I promise." Something in the villain's demeanour shifted, his gaze softening for a mere moment, except he doubted the heroine would take note of it.

There was no doubt about the fact that she would realise she wasn't holding onto his sleeve anymore as he left.

He came back with a cold compress, a glass of water and a bottle of pills, sitting himself at the edge of the bed. Carefully, with a gentleness she'd never known the villain to be capable of, he placed the compress on her forehead, the coolness heavenly against her burning, sweat-slick skin. "Okay, I just need you to sit up and swallow these," he said, and he knew full-well that if she was in a better state she wouldn't have taken the medication so willingly, ergo, she wouldn't have trusted him so willingly. He couldn't help it as a pang of guilt seemed to crawl across his skin, but he shook it off anyway, focusing his attention on steadying the heroine's shaking hands and making sure she swallowed those pills.

He realised he hated seeing the hero, his supposed nemesis, struggling to lift her head up and put it back down, every movement clearly agony for her. He'd imagined he'd revel in her weakness, but right now, nothing of the sort had happened.

The villain had found a washcloth in one of the drawers, using some of the remaining water in the glass to wet it and wipe the sweat off her face and neck, his fingers carding through her hair absently as he pushed himself inwards onto the bed, letting Hero huddle into his form for warmth.

"Y-you're. . .gorgeous," she rasped out, staring into the villain's eyes, taking in the features of his face, his figure, all of him, even in this clouded state.

"What?" he blurted out, completely taken aback, but still continuing to stroke through the heroine's hair.

"Haven't you seen yourself?" she questioned incredulously, as though it was the most obvious thing in existence.

The villain smirked in response, "Well, I guess I'm not narcissistic enough for your point to stick."

"Villain I. . .I'm in love with you," the hero admitted, and he'd never heard her voice so laden with conviction before, not when she'd promised to defeat him, and not any other time ever, her eyes locking with his own, her gaze unrelenting.

Sure, it still irked the villain that when the heroine had confessed her love to him, she'd been delirious, and that her strong emotion could possibly be a result of the aforementioned delirium, but that didn't mean these words held no weight or that the way the hero had regarded him - was still regarding him, had no effect on him.

So for once in his life, the villain sucked in a sharp breath and decided to risk it. "I'm in love with you too," he stage-whispered, carefully shifting the hero so that she was lying down on his lap and kissing her forehead gently.

Some locks are easy to pick, others not so much. That does not mean opening them is impossible, just that it may take a little longer to find the key. Most people aren't aware of what they are capable of feeling, of doing when their heart starts to beat for someone else. But they can never find out unless they have the courage to face the daunting possibility of taking the chance offered to them because love doesn't knock on the door; it walks in announced, and you get to choose what to do about it.

✨️Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @a-fucking-simp-00 @addictedsandwhichaki @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @theangstyclown @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @m3rakii @crotchgoblin69 @wtfevenisausername @pendarling @avloki-pal @kaiwewi@those-damn-snippets @whatiswhumpblog

‘KID’ NICKNAME STARTERS. always accepting.

It's 1:33 AM. It's always 1:33 AM.

He remembers the scream tearing out of his throat, but this time it’s like he can’t say anything at all. The gunshots burst in his ears. Blood runs over concrete as he runs, rubber soles pounding, because this can't be happening again, it can't—

The hand on his forehead is freezing, fingertips brushing his hair back, but it feels so good he can't help but turn toward it even as he shivers, wracked with cold. It's the middle of October and it feels like it's 90 degrees.

"Doc." It's more of a whimper than Marty would ever like to admit. Blue eyes, fever-bright and dazed, slowly slide open, meeting the scientist’s gaze after a few moments too long.

“Wait, what’re you doing out of bed?!” he exclaims, blind panic and adrenaline overtaking him as he tries to sit up. “Your chest— and-and your head! I’m s’posed to be keepin’ an eye on you! I—”

The exhaustion catches up with him as he falls back onto the cot. Wait, when did he get here? Last thing he remembered, he was sitting on the floor…

His eyes turn glassy with unshed tears.

I've been working on the next chapter of this story for a while now, but for now you get a bonus chapter - the rescue from Isa's perspective!

For most of the days this month I tried to use the lyric or at least the song as the prompt, but this is one of a few where that just didn't work out and I used a different prompt, instead.

Masterlist

No. 13: Infection | Panic

Contains: lady whump, sensory overload, needle mention, fever, captivity, thoughts of death, magical whump, touch aversion, implied sedatives

.

.

Isa can’t remember ever feeling this sick before. It isn’t the first instance in the time she’s been here that a wound has gotten infected, but she’s weaker now, likely. There’s no way she hasn’t steadily been getting weaker all this time. And now…it’s probably finally the end. Yes, she’s thought it many times before. She thought she was going to die just a few days after she first got kidnapped. She never dreamed she’d still be here five years later. 

But everything has been so much worse since Lainey ran. Sir is so angry. She isn’t sure anymore that he wants her alive. He seems like he wants to keep beating them both until they’re dead and he doesn’t have to deal with them anymore. So even if he does come back down here and sees how sick she is, she isn’t confident he’ll do anything about it. 

“Mum?” Lando says, he trails his fingers along the wood of the porch. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” she says. “Is everything okay?”

“How do you know when to go to the GP with a fever?” It’s cold out, even in his thick hoodie. He wraps his arms across his chest. 

“Are you sick?” Cisca asks. “What’s your fever?” 

“Thirty-eight point five,” Lando says. “I’m not sick.” He catches a sliver of wood, tugs at it. “Jenson has the flu.” There’s a pause on the other end. “Mum?” 

Tech x GN! Reader

Rating: SFW 16+ (but the 1st rule in this blog is "M I N O R S do not interact")

Pairing: Tech x GN! Reader

Word Count: 691 (new personal record!)

Warnings: fluff | reader is sick | fever delirium | a lot of tears |

A/N: A half of this I wrote it while I was feeling really bad and then I spent all the day working on it, my mind wasn't quiet until I finished.

This is officially my first fanfic!, so I understand if this isn't good but please don't be rude.

I hope you like it like I enjoyed to write it.

Divider: firefly-graphics

“Cya’re?” he asked, going into the ship.

You heard his voice very further, your entire body was aching and shivering, your eyes were dry and keeping open was hurting a lot. You were on the floor? In your bunk? Where were you? You only felt dazed and tired.

@nothingunrealistic

Jared is bad at stress management during finals

Trigger Warnings: Fever, unhealthy eating habits and caffeine use

Having now thought about it some more, I've realized that this specific plot would probably be better set around midterms, either in junior year pre-canon or senior year in an AU where Connor never died.

Regardless of setting specifics, Jared spends almost a full week staying up until around 3AM to study and work on essays/projects, attempting to live off of instant ramen and caffeine.

After the fourth or fifth day of doing this, his body finally revolts and he wakes up one morning with a low-grade fever. He has two tests and a project due that day, so he copes with this by taking two Tylenol and trying to chug a McDonald's coffee on the way to school.

Meanwhile, Evan has of course been wrapped up in his own midterm-induced anxiety, but he is thankfully unable to even try pulling all-nighters and therefore fairing slightly better than Jared as a result.

He's definitely noticed that Jared has been stressed out and cranky all week, but he doesn't really realize how exhausted Jared is until he sees him stumble into school that morning.

Jared is even worse for wear by the time lunch rolls around. His temperature is still down, but his face is pale and the circles under his eyes almost look like bruises. He spends the period picking at his food, guzzling a Diet Coke to try to get rid of his headache, and telling Evan to quit staring at him Like That.

Evan decides to check on Jared one more time at the end of the day, only to find him slumped forward, pressing his face against the cool metal of his locker. Evan tentatively touches his forehead and feels him burning up with what is now a high-grade fever. (And almost as concerningly, Jared hums and leans into his hand instead of pushing him away.)

This obviously freaks Evan out, to the point where he makes Jared give him his car keys and insist on taking him home himself, even though Evan hates driving and almost always avoids it.

Evan manages to get Jared home, upstairs, and into bed without Jared blacking out or collapsing like he's worried he will. Jared's room is a total trainwreck, and Evan is able to figure out that he's barely been sleeping for the last several days.

Jared's parents won't be home for at least a few hours and Evan is too afraid to leave him alone, so he spends the next few hours sitting at the foot of Jared's bed and alternating between trying to study, watching Jared to make sure he doesn't die in his sleep, and either calling his mom or frantically Googling to find out how high a person's temperature can get before they need to go to the hospital.

At some point Jared wakes up and is more or less completely out of it. He may or may not break down from receiving Affection and then may or may not pretend to have no memory of it once he's better.

Excerpt:

Evan stares at the coffee for a moment as his brain buffers for the proper social cue. “Um. No thanks.”

Jared’s still himself enough to roll his eyes. “Hold it, genius.”

Evan hastily takes it from him. Its heat bleeds easily through the thin paper cup and nearly burns his fingers. Jared’s already managed to drink half of it without waiting for it to cool off.

“Rough--uh, long night?” Evan asks as Jared fumbles with his combination.

Jared doesn’t even take either of the opportunities to make a sex joke. “I was up until fucking 3 AM.”

Hanekoma opened his eyes and felt as if he were sumberged completely underwater. Mild panic awakened his senses, but only just so. Trying to jump up caused his head to spin and his world to turn around him. He took a deep breath, and then another, and he felt the pressure around his chest. His stomach rolled painfully.

He was... Very sick.

He blinked through a bleary cloud and carefully stood out of the bed. The floor felt so cold under his feet, his body felt so heavy. He could barely make out where the door was but he drug himself panting to it anyway. The light was too bright, the house was too hot. He stumbled, leaning against the wall to keep himself steady as he slipped into the bathroom.

One look in the mirror was all that he needed to understand he had a fever. His face was drawn, his cheeks patchy and red, his eyes bloodshot. He was a mess, and his eyes were swimming. He could only imagine what he would have looked like to someone who could actually see straight. Still, he fumbled through his things until he found the thermometer and took his temperature, leaning heavily against the sink.

40° C... Fuck.

He groaned and tilted his head back, his body seeming to feel even worse with the confirmation on hand. He really did have a fever, and quite a bad one at that. He needed to go open the shop, but he could barely even stand much less go set up. There was no way he'd make it. He couldn't even fathom going down the rest of the hall right now, and he knew he needed to get water for himself. He needed to take care of himself. Do... Something.

But as he got out of the door the vertigo got the best of him and he found himself meeting the other wall of the hallway with his face at top speed. He hadn't at all realized he was as close to that wall as he was, and the impact caused him to fall backwards onto his rear on the floor. He groaned, whined, whimpered as he pulled his knees up to his chest. There was nothing that could make him feel as vulnerable, as sad and weak and hopeless, as being sick like this. He hated having to nurse himself, but he was afraid of anyone seeing him like this. It was enough to make him want to cry.

Hanekoma shook his head and rocked forward onto his knees, pushed himself up with sore muscles and bones that seemed to creak like an old house. He went through the door. What door? He didn't know. He didn't care. But he felt his fingers curl around a doorframe and it was the most solid thing in the world. He took a deep breath as he ventured away from it and the tips of his toes found his bed well before his eyes even fully registered the room around him.