#sick reader

He would get mad because she didn't mentioned it days ago when he got a single phone call to home.

Noticed something was odd just from her voice but thought she was holding tears as usual. Not to worry him.

Well, now he was fuckin' worried.

—I'm okay Si, it's just a silly fever.

—…could be a fricking scratch and my heart would still die with you— he mumbled in a grunt while putting some of his big-ass socks into her cold feet.— Thought we promised not to hide a shit to each other

—Yeah but this was nothing…— she weakly reached his chin to make him look up.. — this is nothing sweetboy…

Simon sighs before pecking her now covered toes. Giving a long loving kiss at her knee while sweetly lookin' up at her.

—I know u think I'm a big tough bastard… but i hate to see you in pain too…

____ draws a small smile.

—You are too sweet when I'm vulnerable. It seems… maybe I should get sick more often..

—Not fun— he hisses before settling next to her on bed. Tenderly caressing away the wet hairs off her forehead.—…called Price to stay a week.

She hums in both contentment and ache as he caressed her warm reddish face.

He coos sweet little nothings.

About how she didn't have to worry anymore…that he was there and wouldn't leave until she was healthy and happy.

That he loves her and will take care of the most valuable soul in HIS world…

And after so many sleepless nights, ____ finally found the security and care she had been craving.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

I wrote this while desiring to be yn while shivering like a chihuahua T_T. Being sick makes me so emotional guys.

☄︎ Warnings: not proofread & idk my tenses ☄︎ Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x F!Reader x Beau Maxwell ☄︎ Rating: PG ☄︎ Words: 2760 ☄︎ AN: Written for this lovely anon, i hope you enjoyed, i actually cannot remember the last time i was sick so please ignore the creative liberties i have taken lmao

Beau (established relationship) & Dean (no labels) look after you when sick

synopsis: it was already lunch time and you still weren't bugging zanka out of his wits end. so naturally, he goes to your room to check up on you, only to find out you were sick

— something short and sweet for Zanka <3 — tags: zanka nijiku x gn! reader, denial of feelings, feeling realisation - kinda, romance, fluff, a sprinkle of light angst if you squint hard enough ig, zanka really doesn't wanna face his feelings for you lol, sick! reader — consider this my first torpe! zanka fic hehe ─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

YOU WEREN'T PRESENT during breakfast, which was perfectly normal considering you usually sleep in during your day off—and Zanka was fairly certain today was one of those. So, he didn't mind your absence, no matter how much it left a rather large void in his heart.

Nope. He wasn't about to unpack those feelings. Not now. Not ever. Abso-fucking-lutely not. Thank you very much.

But when lunchtime started to creep in and there was still no sign of you, he was willing to admit that his stomach churn uncomfortably.

By now, you should already be up and about, annoying him with that sickly sweet smile of yours, walking down the hall beside him with arms just a bit too close to his, and staring at him with those pretty eyes of yours like he was the only damn person in your line of sight.

Yeah. Safe to say he didn't like not having you around.

Not that he was going to publicly admit that.

And so, he steeled himself with the only excuse he could muster: He was just doing a teammate wellness check. Yeah, one of those stuff. Not worrying, or panicking. Just a good old checking on why you weren't present during breakfast and still not by his side right now. Repeating over and over again that he was just doing a wellness check on a teammate.

There wasn't any other reason as to why he hurried his way down to your room, heart beating loudly against his ears as his chest heaved in and out of exhaustion. There wasn't any reason why he stood frozen in front of your door just a second too long because he hesitated on knocking.

Would it be respect to only knock once, or should he do the standard three times and then, calling out your name? But, what if you had a particular set of knocking you liked done to announce a person's presence?

Damn, he was overthinking all of these too much.

He knocked, three times before calling out your name in a hushed tone. "Ya there?" he asked, pressing closer to the door with a hand resting on the knob. "Ya weren't at breakfast, an' it's already lunch. Riyo's been buggin' me to fetch ya or else Rudo's gon' eat yer share of the sweets."

There was no reply, only suffocating silence that weighed heavily on Zanka's shoulders.

He tried again, voice pressed through clenched teeth. "[Name], ya still asleep or what?" Again, you didn't reply, which only deepened the gnawing worry inside him.

Zanka's jaw tightened as he dragged a hand through his hair, one foot mindlessly tapping against the floor.

He should probably report this to Semiu. She would know what to do since she handled stuff like these with Gris and Enjin, whenever the two men drink too much on a workday. On the other hand, the itch inside him was relentless. It glued him to the floor, wouldn't allow him to take even a step away from your door which was starting to look rather menacingly in his eyes.

His hand twisted the knob, and your door creaked open.

Instantly, worry flooded his chest, colder than anything he'd expected.

His eyes immediately zoned to your bed. You were curled awkwardly around a pillow, hair plastered messily to your face, body swallowed in thick blankets as your chest rose and fell in a rhythmic pattern.

It was odd, definitely odd. You weren't the type to bundle yourself up even in the dead of a winter night.

He stepped inside, the noise echoing hollowly as dread coiled in his gut, clawing at his skin and nerves like parasites. "[Name]...?" he called softly. "Hey, you okay...?" He finally went over you, gently pushing away strands of your hair, only to jerk back at the blistering heat of your skin.

"Shit! Yer burnin' up!" he hissed, eyes widening. He didn't bother hiding his panic as he carefully rolled you onto your back.

Your cheeks and forehead were flushed red, beads of sweat rolling down to your damp duvet. Uneven and shallow breathing left your pale lips, like each one hurt a little more than the last.

Your eyes cracked open, hazy and unfocused as you squinted at him. "Zan... ka? What're... you doing... here? What time... is... it?"

“The better question is why in the hell ya didn't tell anyone ya were this sick?!” he snapped, pressing a hand to your forehead again. Fuck, it was honestly a feat on how high your temperature was. "Damn it—ya could fry an egg on yer face!"

Zanka's sharp words betrayed his panic-soft hands, gently fixing your blankets and lifting your head just enough to support you. Carefully, he sat the edge of your bed, just close enough to feel your immense warmth through the layers of fabrics. He scanned the room, cursing quietly at the overturned, dried-up cup of water on the floor.

"...How long've ya been like this?"

"...Since morning, I think..." you murmured. "I tried to... get outta bed for breakfast, but... got too dizzy... and just collapsed on bed again..."

You then chuckled, voice hoarse. It tugged something inside Zanka. "Think I stayed too long in the polluted zone yesterday... I'll be fine... just gotta... sleep it off, that's all..."

Zanka nearly choked on his saliva, eyebrows raised to his forehead. "Sleep—?! Yer as red as Rudo's beady lil' eyes an' ya think sleep's gon' help ya?!"

You nodded, a small smile plastered on your lips. "Mhmm... just like old times..."

He shot up, heart beating way too loudly in his ears as he moved with a burst of frantic energy he didn't quite understand himself. He fetched a small bowl of water from your bathroom, soaked a clean towel, wrung it out, and returned to your side in record time.

"Hold still," he mumbled, gently pressing the cool towel to your forehead. Your body relaxed instantly, breath easing through your nose as you sighed, falling deeper into your bed. Zanka let out a sigh of his own—full of relief that he didn't realise he'd been holding this entire time.

For a moment, the room fell still.

Zanka's knee bounced restlessly, the small bowl of water splashing against his pants. His fingers tapped against the bed. His lips parted and sealed again. His eyes were locked onto your face, intently watching your content smile while he ran the cool towel on your reddish skin repeatedly

Again, that same large void gnawed inside him like a beast. It twitched and turned at the unfamiliar sight of you—like everything about this was just wrong. You weren't supposed to look like you've just returned from a dangerous battle involving some kind of poison. You were supposed to be smiling by his side, the only redness on your face meant to be on your cheeks when he finally humoured your oh-so-delicious compliments—

Nope. Nuh uh. He refused to acknowledge it. Not a chance. No way.

He huffed, finding himself ridiculous before his eyes returned to your face.

"...Ya know," he started quietly, "yer real annoyin' when ya get sick."

He paused, sighing, as he dragged a hand through his hair again. "Yer annoyin' when yer healthy too, but... this is worse. A lot worse." He grimaced at himself, the honesty slipping out faster than he could filter it. "'Cause I don't know what the hell to do with myself when ya ain't 'round with that smile of yers," he muttered, voice barely audible as his finger mindlessly traced from your forehead to your cheek.

Zanka then froze, brain buffering, trying to digest his own words. Mortified, his eyes flicked toward you—luckily, your eyes were shut, chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm that soothed his fried nerves.

Good.

Thank the sky.

He'd sooner throw himself back into that damn well than let you hear that. No doubt you would be teasing him about it for three to five business weeks.

He leaned back, staring up at the dull ceiling as he silently cursed himself for not having enough self-control. Yet, despite that, he knew the softness in his expression was completely betraying him right now.

A soft sound escaped you as you shifted, and instantly he was leaning forward again—one hand fixing your blanket, adjusting your pillow, and brushing gentle fingers across your temple while balancing the bowl of water on his lap with surprising precision.

His stare lingered on your face for a moment, taking in your peaceful expression. The way your complexion slowly returned to its original warmth, your lashes resting softly against your cheeks, your cute nose, and your partially-opened lips with soft snores whispering out of them.

Zanka let a small, relieved smile tug his lips upward. The void in his heart was no more, instead, it was thrumming with loud drums and a roaring engine. It filled him with lightness—like his world was back to its original axis after a devastating fall. Like seeing you breathe easy again let something inside him breathe too.

← BACK.

♯┆ [damian wayne x sick gf!reader] INCLUDES.ᐟ

⤿ DAMIAN WAYNE loves how strong-willed you are, except when you decide not to tell him you're feeling sick. But once he finds you sickly and asleep, he won't let you lift a finger.

!! fluff. established relationship. damien being soft in his own way. mentions of sickness obviously. nothing but typical fatigue type of sickness fret not. female reader. no real warnings. fever reading is in fahrenheit i realized that when i gave the fic a little read. SUCH A GOOD REQUEST ANON!!! ENJOY.

summary; your best friend theo takes care of you while you’re sick

warnings; childhood friends too scared to admit their love, fluff, very soft theo

notes; yk that one scene from people we meet on vacation?

Some say that a connection that transcends feeble emotions is rare, that being able to completely understand another is a gift.

You didn’t remember when Theodore Nott, the quiet boy your parents would force you to play with while your families had dinner, became Theo, your best friend. But between the quiet moments of comfort he’d provide after another year of not receiving a Christmas gift from your parents and the careful one-sided conversations where you would listen to his worries about his future; that fickle bond strengthened into a friendship that fueled you like the blood coursing through your veins.

Perhaps your two beings were always meant to find each other. Maybe the universe had welded your hearts to beat in sync and curated your very souls to perfectly align. Like when you’re studying late one night and Theo immediately knows you don’t understand the Potions assignment but refuse to ask for help, so he calmly slides his notes across the table without even looking up from his own work. Attentive, careful, but inadvertent, as if his brain was wired to care for you.

Or how you can spot the clench of his jaw from a mile away—a telltale sign that he’s overwhelmed or that his social battery is just drained. You immediately latch onto his side and plan the smoothest exit possible, all while tracing your nails up and down the inside of his arm because you know it soothes him.

This silent understanding between the two of you stemmed from being around each other your entire lives.

You distinctly remember running around important galas with him, dirtying up the dress your mother told you not to. You two would play in his mansion’s garden until you’d get a rose thorn stuck in your skin and you’d both cry all the way back to his front door—you because the thorn in your finger would surely kill you, and him because seeing you in pain would surely kill him.

Your first couple years at Hogwarts, you’d think your souls were chained together the way you two refused to leave the other’s side. He was your anchor in a sea of change that you thought you’d drown in. You were his lifeline, his comfort, his reason to stay level while the world around him fought to turn him upside down.

Things never changed between you. Not when you got older and started going to parties, where he would drag you up to bed after and take off all your makeup because he knew you hated sleeping in mascara. Not when you’d hide his cigarette packs to slowly start weening him off of it, even when he grumbled about wanting a smoke.

Not even when your friend group, and potentially the entire school, constantly pondered when the two of you would get together.

That wasn’t usually a topic you two talked about. It only made your stomach churn and your feet tap with restlessness. Why would they think that?

“I swear, I tried to come sooner but these bloody chocolates are a pain to find.”

You blinked groggily, lifting your head up from where you were curled up in a mountain of blankets that had become your temporary home.

Summer break couldn’t have come quicker, but unfortunately, you had spent the first couple days of it feeling a sickness building in your system. Even worse, you’d spent the last few hours dealing with the brunt of it. Your parents condemned you to your room with some sour smelling potion and a notice that they’d be gone for the night at the gala that you had once been excited to attend.

Theo dusted off his pants as he stepped out of your fireplace, Floo Powder still clinging to his brunette strands and a paper bag clutched in one arm. When he looked up, the annoyed furrow of his brows immediately softened, and he lowered his voice slightly, waking over to your bed.

“Oh, cara mia,” his voice was gentle in a way you rarely heard anymore (or were sober enough to register) as he crouched beside your bed, lowering the bag in his arm to the floor. He reached out, gliding his knuckles along your cheek, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. “How are you feeling, hm?”

You could only stare blankly at him, partly because you were basking in the softness of his touch against your skin and partly because you don’t even remember telling him you were sick. Maybe you had and the hazy sensation that riddled your body was messing with your memory. It sure was messing with your vision, or had Theo always looked so soft and blurry around the edges?

The Italian accent that coated all of his words was a saccharine melody that trickled into your ears and down your body, sending tingles all the way to your fingertips. The daze that clouded the world was definitely toying with your thoughts and making you think ludicrous things like how soft his lips would feel against yours or if he would taste like the minty toothpaste he always left in your bathroom during sleepovers.

Slowly, as if scared to mess with the contents of a dream and watch it all vanish before you, you reached for him.

“Teddy? You’re here?” you murmured as your fingers made contact with the soft skin of his cheek. You felt it ripple beneath your fingertips as he cringed at the childhood nickname, though he still allowed your touch to linger.

“You know I hate that name, but yes, I’m here. Are you that out of it?” he smiled softly at you, teasingly, and you couldn’t help but trace the dimple that bloomed beneath his skin.

But then you frowned, retracting your hand and burying your face back into the blankets. “Haven’t had anything to drink tonight, seriously,” the words were jumbled and muffled into the thick cotton wrapped around you, your attempted eye roll turning into a prolonged blink.

Theo, sickening grin still painting his features, just shook his head. He gave your head a comforting pat, ruffling your hair, and stood, placing the bag he brought on your nightstand. He mumbled something about the foul potion that you’d drank but you couldn’t comprehend it over the deafening crinkle of the bag.

“Would you stop making all that noise, please?” you sniffled out, coughing between a few words.

“M’sorry, tesoro, but I brought your favorites,” he carefully pulled out an assortment of items, throwing the empty bag to the floor. “Cauldron Cakes, had the elves make your favorite soup, and…”

Theo trailed off, narrowing his eyes at you as he carefully nudged the blankets off your face to press his palm to your forehead. He frowned immediately, eyes flashing with concern.

“And that hoodie of mine that you like, but I’ll only let you wear it once this fever’s down, got it?”

You huffed, eyes half lidded and tracing the hard lines of his face only softened by your current state. You’d always known your best friend was attractive, how could you not? With the amount of girls that approached you each day asking if you were dating him, why you weren’t dating him, and if they could date him; it was hard not to notice.

Right now, though, he looked like the boy no one else got to see. The Theo that you didn’t have to share with the entire girl population of the school or pretend didn’t exist when he put on his indifferent mask to others.

This Theo was just for you. This Theo made it nearly impossible to control those ludicrous thoughts.

“Still with me, amore?” he asked, thumb brushing along your temple with a reverence one would save for fine china. He leaned in closer, jaw clenched in the way that told you his brain was working overtime to process all the thoughts he was sending it.

“Mhm. You?”

He chuckled, a sweet sound that, if supplied more often, probably could’ve cured your sickness right then. “You making fun of me?” his voice dropped an octave as his fingers began to run carefully along your scalp.

You just sniffled, barely managing a sleepy shake of your head that pulled another fond laugh from Theo’s lips.

“I’m guessing you haven’t eaten today,” he murmured, almost to himself, one hand still gently massaging your head and the other finding your own to fold your fingers over his. “Can you sit up for me, tesoro? You need some food in you.”

His voice, dipped in sweetness and with that gentle rasp, coaxed you to finally pull the blankets lower, allowing him to take in the red rim around your eyes, dark circles, and the coloring of your irritated nose.

“There you are,” he cooed, squeezing your hand once before letting it drop to slide his arms under yours, helping you sit up.

“Theo…” you huffed, blinking groggily at him, body limp in his arms. “You’re s’posed to be at that party…” Finally able to get a good look at him, your eyes trailed over his figure.

His hair was disheveled and you knew he’d been running his hands through it in that way he always did when he was stressed. He had a dress shirt on but the first few buttons were undone and the sleeves were wrinkled from where he’d pushed them up to his elbows. The soft pink of his lips tugged up again, pupils dilated and trained on you with quiet fascination.

“I was there, but I couldn’t find you. Talked to your parents and they said you were home with a fever,” he tilted his head closer, propping you up against your pillows. “What fun are those silly things without you, anyway?”

If your entire face wasn’t already warm from the fever, it scorched as his soft words hit your ears. He sounded so real and it shot a shiver down your spine. Quiet confessions like that, the ones he easily gave you like they were written in a constitution, nearly broke you every time. They made you spiral, made you rethink your decade long friendship.

They made your heart soar up to the clouds but made your stomach plummet. If he said those things to you so easily, how was he saying them to other girls?

Before you knew it, a steaming thermos of your favorite soup was below your nose as Theo stirred its contents. You frowned at it, not feeling an appetite at all but wanting to taste the savory soup that you cherished.

“I can’t…m’not hungry,” you grumbled sadly, fingers toying with your blankets.

“Just a few bites, per favore?”

You wished you could say no to him.

Theo spoon fed you nearly half of the soup before he finally closed it and put it back in his bag. Then, being the overbearing and protective best friend he is, he forced you out of bed and into a slightly cold shower.

“Leave the door unlocked,” he’d said, and when you asked why, he only smirked. “Can’t have you collapsing in the shower with no help, right, principessa?”

You merely rolled your eyes but obliged, returning a few minutes later to him cleaning your messy nightstand. Not only that, he’d replaced your sheets and left only one blanket from your previous pile.

“My blankets, Theo…!” you whined, throwing your dirty clothes off to the side.

He straightened up at your voice, taking in the sight of you, standing and less flushed after a refreshing shower. He smiled, reaching for a bundle of fabric and tossing it to you. “Speaking full sentences now, I see. Feeling better?”

The piece of clothing hit you square in the chest, and upon unfolding it, you smiled as you saw it was your favorite hoodie of his. It practically belonged to you with the amount of times you’d stolen it from his closet and kept it for weeks.

“I will get snot all over your hoodie, Nott,” you scoffed, pulling it over your head and watching it fall to your thighs.

Theo merely laughed as you trudged over to your bed and sunk into the fresh sheets, immediately curling up under the blanket and letting your eyes flutter shut.

When your best friend spoke again, his voice was gentle and right in front of your face. You kept your eyes closed, swallowing hard. “Need anything else, cara?”

You shook your head and felt him linger for just a second longer before footsteps retreated from your bed. At once, you snapped your eyes open.

“Where are you going?” you asked him, sounding almost panicked as he stopped in his tracks and turned, book dangling from his left hand.

“Letting you sleep,” he responded in a questioning tone, brows furrowed in confused amusement.

You shook your head, opening up your blanket. Maybe the haze that’d fallen over the world since you’d been sick was truly messing with your brain, but you knew for sure that you wanted him close. You always wanted him close. It wasn’t like you and Theo hadn’t ever shared a bed or anything, so there was no harm done.

“Tesoro…”

“Teddy…”

He scowled at you and you only gave your best desperate smile, patting the empty space beside you. “Please?” You added on, the juicy red cherry on top.

With a dramatic huff, Theo strode over to your bed, kicked off his shoes, and huddled under the covers beside you. He held out his arm expectantly and you immediately nestled in, cheek smushed against his chest, leg thrown over his waist, and arm splayed across his torso.

“I just can’t say no to you,” he mumbled, the arm around your shoulders pulling you in tighter while his other one reached for your thigh, dragging you partially on top of him.

“You love me, Theo,” you mumbled sleepily, already halfway into a deep sleep. “And I love you. Please don’t love anyone else.”

Theo’s breath hitched, arm pausing on its way around your shoulders, but you were already asleep.

“Ti amo anch'io, tesoro,” your best friend mumbled, lips pressed to your hairline as he slowly relaxed with your weight against him.

What you didn’t see was Theo’s fond gaze soaking in the sight of you so comfortable against him, the pads of his fingers tracing along the shell of your ear and down your jaw, rubbing your collarbone and finally finding a home in your hair. He soothed your scalp, fingers carding through the strands in that careful way he knew would only send you deeper into sleep.

The book he was supposed to be reading sat on your nightstand collecting dust. He knew he wasn’t going to so much as open it while you were in his arms. He’d stop the world from spinning just so you could rest uninterrupted a few minutes longer. Because his usually loud brain was silent when you were near. Because his future didn’t seem as daunting with you in the picture.

𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑

bruce wayne x gn!reader

𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐒 ! ── 1.1k words. established relationship. when bruce tries to get you to take medicine you’re very adamant about not taking any. that is, until he forces you.

You wake to the sound of measured footsteps outside the bedroom door, each one too calm, too controlled. It irritates you instantly.

The light filtering through the curtains feels too bright, drilling straight into your skull. Your body is heavy like your limbs don’t quite belong to you today. There’s an ache behind your eyes, a burn in your chest, and that familiar nausea curling in your stomach.

You already know what today is going to be like. You already know you don’t want to deal with it.

The door opens without a knock.

“Good. You’re awake,” Bruce says, voice even, firm.

You roll onto your side, tugging the blanket higher. “Congratulations,” you mutter. “Want a medal?”

Bruce doesn’t rise to it. He never does. He steps into the room, takes in the untouched glass of water on your nightstand, the small pill organizer beside it—still full. His jaw tightens just slightly.

“You were supposed to take your medication an hour ago,” he says.

“And you were supposed to mind your own business,” you snap back, sharper than you mean to be, but not sharp enough to stop yourself.

There’s a pause. Bruce exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he’s counting down something dangerous. When he speaks again, his tone is stern, edged with something heavy underneath.

“This is my business,” he says. “You’ve been pushing yourself for days. You didn’t sleep last night. You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, even as your hands curl into the sheets to steady themselves.

Bruce crosses the room and pulls the curtains back just enough to let in softer light instead of the harsh glare. It annoys you—how he notices things, how he adjusts the world around you without asking.

“You’re not fine,” he says. “And being unpleasant doesn’t change that.”

That does it.

You sit up too fast, the room tilting for a moment before settling. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you bite out. “Did my tone offend you? Must be hard, being Bruce Wayne, savior of idiots who won’t listen.”

The words land hard, even in the quiet room. Alfred would have scolded you gently. Dick would have cracked a joke. Bruce just looks at you, expression darkening—not with anger, but with something closer to disappointment.

“You don’t get to push me away because you’re scared,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

You laugh, bitter and short. “Scared of what? Taking a stupid pill? Lying in bed like I’m useless?”

“Yes,” Bruce says immediately. “That. Exactly that.”

He reaches for the pill organizer, turning it in his hands. “You hate feeling out of control. You hate needing help. And when your symptoms get worse, you lash out instead.”

You look away, jaw tight. The ache in your chest flares, half physical, half something uglier.

“Get out,” you mutter.

“No.” He said flatly.

Bruce sets the organizer down and pulls a chair closer to the bed, sitting so he’s at eye level with you. His voice lowers—not softer, but steadier, grounding.

“You don’t get to skip your medication because you’re angry,” he says. “And you don’t get to tear into me because I won’t let you make yourself worse.”

“I didn’t ask you to babysit me.”

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t. But you need someone to make sure you rest, and right now, that’s me.”

You feel heat prick behind your eyes, and it makes you furious. You clench your fists.

“I hate this,” you say, voice rough. “I hate feeling weak. I hate that my body can’t just—do what it’s supposed to do.”

Bruce watches you carefully, then reaches out—not touching you yet, just close enough that you feel his presence.

“Needing medication doesn’t make you weak,” he says. “Ignoring it doesn’t make you strong.”

Silence stretches. Your breathing is uneven. The room feels too small, too full of everything you don’t want to admit.

The pill stays on the nightstand. Your chin lifts in quiet defiance, eyes sharp despite the tremor in your hands. “I said no,” you mutter, turning your face away. “I’m done being managed.”

Bruce goes still.

The air changes—heavier, colder. When he moves, it’s deliberate. He steps in close, blocking your retreat, and his hand comes up to your jaw. Not gentle. Firm. Fingers spread along the hinge, thumb pressing just enough to make you look at him.

“Enough,” he says, low and unyielding.

You scoff, but it falters when his grip tightens a fraction. He angles your face back toward him, forcing your attention to look up at him. “You don’t get to punish your body because you’re angry,” he continues. “And you don’t get to gamble with your health to prove a point.”

“I can handle—”

“No.” The word cuts clean. “You can’t. Not like this.”

He takes the pill, brings it to your lips. When you refuse to open them, his thumb presses at your jaw, firm pressure at the hinge until your mouth parts with a sharp breath. It’s not cruel—just efficient, practiced, the way someone handles a problem they refuse to let get worse.

“Swallow,” he orders.

You glare, heat flaring in your chest, but the pill is already past your teeth. He keeps his hold until you do it, until your throat works and the resistance drains into a bitter, exhausted compliance.

Only then does he let go.

Bruce steps back, watching closely as you cough once and scowl at him like you might bite. His voice doesn’t soften, but it steadies.

“You can hate me for this,” he says. “That’s fine. But you’re taking your medication. You’re resting.”

You don’t answer. You just turn your face to the wall, jaw still burning where his hand was.

Bruce pulls the blanket up anyway.

A few moments pass in silence.

He exhales, slow and tired, like he’s finally letting something slip. “You know,” he says quietly, “I’m aware I can be… harsh. I don’t always say things the right way.” His voice tightens just a little. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t worry.”

You don’t turn around. You don’t give him the satisfaction.

Still, he continues. “You matter to me. More than you realize. And seeing you in pain—watching you fight your own body—” He stops for a moment. “I don’t want that for you. Even if you’re mean. Even if you push me away.”

The mattress dips as he leans in. You feel the warmth of him before you feel the kiss—gentle, lingering, pressed to the top of your head like a promise rather than an apology.

“I’ll take tomorrow off,” Bruce murmurs. “No board meetings. No calls. I’ll stay with you.”

Then he straightens, footsteps retreating toward the door.

“Get some rest, darling.”

Then the door closes behind him.

you  knew  what  was  happening  before  it  even  happened.  one  day,  you  were  helping  out  fine  in  the  tribe.  sewing  clothes  for  the  newborn  babies,  weaving  baskets  for  fish,  collecting  berries,  and  even  telling  stories  to  the  children.

and  then  your  head  began  to  throb.  you  dismissed  it,  continuing  to  work  but  sokka's  eyes  lingered  on  you  longer  than  normal,  he  was  oddly  intuitive  towards  you.  then  the  body  aches  started,  the  shivers,  the  runny  nose,  the  scratchy  throat,  and  finally,  the  fever  broke.

sokka  kept  you  firmly  in  bed,  even  when  you  protested  and  tried  to  tell  him  you  were  fine,  he  was  not  having  it.  you  sniffled  and  groaned  as  sokka  tucked  you  further  into  your  bed,  wrapping  you  up  in  the  furs  you  had.  "sokka.  'm  fine."  you  tried.

it  didn't  work.  he  shot  you  a  look  that  you  could  only  describe  as  annoyed  beyond  measure.  "you're  not  fine.  would  you  relax  and  let  me  take  care  of  you?"  his  eyes  narrowed  as  he  tucked  you  in  once  more  a  little  too  tight.

"sokka!"  you  squirmed  beneath  the  furs  but  he  just  shook  his  head.  "this  is  unnecessary!"  you  shouted  but  then  fell  into  a  fit  of  coughs.  he  was  at  your  side  in  an  instant  with  a  cup  of  water  and  worry  all  over  his  face.

you  downed  the  whole  thing,  your  throat  feeling  drier  than  that  desert  you  had  lost  appa  in,  fatigue  starting  to  creep  in  on  you  and  you  expected  sokka  to  give  you  one  of  his  signature  'i  told  you  so'  looks  but  all  he  did  was  help  you  get  comfortable.  you  sighed,  pouting  like  a  petulant  child.  "i  hate  being  sick."

your  loving  husband  smiled,  stroking  your  hair  out  of  your  face.  "i  know,  baby."  he  leaned  down  and  kissed  your  forehead.  you  reveled  in  it,  finally  letting  into  his  babying.  "get  some  rest.  you'll  feel  better  when  you  wake  up."

you  reached  for  him  before  he  could  get  up.  you  knew  he  had  duties  to  tend  to  as  chief  but  hey,  you  just  accepted  the  fact  that  you  were  sick  and  now  all  you  wanted  was  him.  his  face  softened.  "you  want  me  to  stay  with  you?"

you  nodded  slowly,  the  nausea  starting  to  roll  again.  he  placed  a  basket  next  to  your  side  of  the  bed  to  have  something  for  you  to  vomit  in  if  needed  but  you  were  determined  to  not  use  it,  you  hated  throwing  up  more  than  you  hated  being  sick. 

sokka  didn't  need  anything  more  from  you,  he  stood  and  stripped  off  his  shirt,  blowing  out  two  of  the  lanterns  in  your  hut  to  leave  one  flickering,  lighting  just  enough  for  you  to  see  his  shadow  moving  until  he  settled  into  bed  beside  you.  he  didn't  take  long  to  gather  you  up  in  his  arms  and  kiss  your  shoulder,  your  neck,  your  cheek,  then  your  mouth.  you  groaned  again.  "'m  gonna  get  you  sick."

sokka  laughed  softly,  just  a  puff  of  air  that  blew  against  your  hair  and  made  a  strand  tickle  your  chin.  "do  i  look  like  i  give  a  single  damn?"

you  smiled,  shaking  your  head  as  you  turned  in  his  arms  to  face  him,  pulling  his  hair  out  of  his  'warriors  wolf  tail'  as  he  likes  to  say  so  you  could  play  with  it.  it  was  always  oddly  really  soft.  his  eyes  roamed  your  face,  taking  you  in  like  you  were  a  work  of  art.

"pretty  girl,"  he  breathed,  rubbing  his  thumb  against  your  cheekbone.

you  sniffled,  one  side  of  your  nose  annoyingly  stuffed  while  the  other  ran  like  crazy.  "nothing  about  this  is  pretty."

sokka  rolled  his  eyes  but  there  was  no  malice  behind  it.  "of  course  there  is.  my  hair."

you  laughed.  he  always  knew  how  to  make  you  laugh.  and  as  you  fell  asleep  with  your  fingers  in  his  hair  and  your  head  pressed  against  his  chest,  listening  to  his  heartbeat,  you  realized  you  had  hit  the  jackpot  with  him.

@feveruary day 21 | baran al-hashimi x reader

baran always notices when you're not feeling well, even when you try to hide it...

tags: fem reader, sickfic, soft baran, fluff (900 words)