#anders writes

[anders-jjk-drabbles]

𝒫𝑜𝓁𝓎!𝒮𝒶𝓉𝑜𝒮𝓊𝑔𝓊 𝓍 𝒢𝒩!𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇: 𝒮𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒟𝒶𝓎

ᵃᵘᵗʰᵒʳˢ ⁿᵒᵗᵉ: ⁿᵍˡ ᶜʰ ²⁶¹ ᴴᴱᴬⱽᴵᴸʸ ⁱⁿᶠˡᵘᵉⁿᶜᵉᵈ ᵐᵉ ᵗᵒ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉ ᵗʰⁱˢ. ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ ʷᵃⁿᵗᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉ ᵃ ᶠⁱᶜ ᵒᶠ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ᵗᵃᵏᵉˢ ᶜᵃʳᵉ ᵒᶠ ᴳᵒʲᵒ ᵃⁿᵈ ᴳᵉᵗᵒ. ᴺᵒ ˢᵖᵒⁱˡᵉʳ ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍˢ ⁿᵉᵉᵈᵉᵈ!

Synopsis: Typically you were the one who always got sick, but when you woke up this morning, it was Satoru and Suguru both who fell under the weather!

Content Warnings: illness (implication of being chronically ill), Use of terms like but not limited to, "mucus". For those who are easily disturbed by words like 'snot' I kept that light and there's nothing super explicitly there. Gojo and Geto refer to the reader as 'bunny'. No use of reader or Y/N. Brief mentions of Jujutsu world and society. Nothing too serious.

ᴾˡᵉᵃˢᵉ ˡᵉᵗ ᵐᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ⁱᶠ ᴵ ᵐⁱˢˢᵉᵈ ᵃⁿʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ! ♡

word count: 1.4k

You were used to getting sick. The fevers, chills, mucus, etcetera. Between Satoru, Suguru and you, more often than not it was you who caught whatever plague was rampaging through Tokyo at the time. Whenever you were sick, the two men pampered you in their own little ways. 

Suguru, who always made sure there was a pot of your favorite homemade soup hot on the stove. Who checked your fever with a kiss to your forehead, and would braid your hair back to keep it out of your face. While Satoru, would be the first to bring you meds and a bottle of water. He would sit with you for hours, holding you close while you binge-watched shows together. Whenever you would sigh and explain to him that he would get sick. Satoru would give you his signature shit-eating grin and tell you, “Don’t worry, bunny. Suguboo and I are the strongest. So we won’t get sick from a little measly cold.”

That was, of course, until both of your boys woke up sicker than dogs this morning.  Satoru’s face was bright with fever, and Suguru was coughing up a lung. Whatever they had brought home, it hadn’t gotten you. Both of them were completely out of it. Satoru was a clingy mess, hugging your thighs as he burrowed his head into your lap. Gently, you stroked the strands of sweat-soaked white hair from his forehead. He sniffed loudly, voice nasally from congestion,  “Bunny— why does this fucking suck so bad? You never act this miserable when you’re sick.” 

From the opposite side of the room, Suguru sat at the dining table, his head covered with a towel as he leaned over a bowl of steaming water. At Satoru’s whine, he lifted his head slightly, long black hair braided down his back in a French braid. A loud indignant sniff filled the room as Suguru grumbled, “It’s because, Satoru, they’re always sick. When you’re used to something it gets easie—“ His teasing chide was cut off as he released a hacking cough into his elbow. A groan escaped his lips as he returned to the head-sized cavern of steam he trapped himself in.

“My poor babies,” You cooed, smiling softly as you rubbed Satoru’s back soothingly.  It was true. As you had grown up you got sick constantly, you grew used to moving about and just weathering through whatever storm came your way. If it wasn’t contagious and just part of your usual strew of symptoms and not knocking you flat on your ass— You still existed as if everything was almost normal. “Well ya know, angel,” You patted Satoru’s back to get his attention, “Suguru has the right idea. Some steam inhalation would really help.”

In response, Satoru only wrapped himself closer around you on the couch. A muffled whine pressed against your stomach you hardly understood other than his strong disagreement to the idea. “Can’t hear ya, baby.” You giggled, pulling his hair slightly until he blinked up at you with his pretty blues and a sweet pout. 

“Don’t wanna.” Satoru huffed, sniffing indignantly, “It feels weird. Makes my head too hot and it makes me more miserable.” 

You snorted at his response, rubbing Satoru’s back soothingly. Turned out that when the strongest sorcerers got sick, they were whiny. For a while you sat there with Satoru, holding him close as he sniffed and coughed into your lap. Suguru hunched over the bowl, coughing and hacking. With a pat to Satoru’s shoulder, you murmured, “Okay, Satoru sweetie— I need to get up. I’m gonna make you both some soup.”

He whined again, pressing his forehead against the flesh of your stomach, “Nuh-uh. I’m cold and you’re warm— stay, bunny, please.”With a laugh, you shook your head slowly. “Just a little longer…” You promised easily, rubbing the back of his neck, causing contented little groans and whimpers to escape his pretty lips. A few more moments pass as you agreed and sat with him for a few minutes longer but their combined sniffing and miserable faces was more than enough to convince you. They needed something to eat here soon—

 So with a huff, and a whine of protest from Satoru, you pushed him off of your lap and back onto a pillow on the couch.  “Rest, honey.” You gave head an affectionate pat as you walked past him into the kitchen. It took you a few minutes to decide what you wanted to make, going through the cabinets and fridge as you looked through ingredients and spices. As you bent over to pull out a stock pot from the cabinet, Suguru’s hands squeezed your hips affectionately as he pressed his forehead against your shoulder blades,  “Thanks for taking care of us, bunny.” He hummed in the back of his throat, as you straightened up and he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. Compared to earlier, he definitely sounded less congested.

 The little moment in the kitchen was interrupted by Satoru’s loud groan from the couch, “Can one of you at least come and hold me? I’m miserable over here.”

Both Suguru and you burst into a fit of laughter.  He kissed your cheek and left the kitchen to join Satoru on the couch. While they settled in you hauled the pot onto the stove and got started on the soup. Meanwhile, Digimon’s theme song started in the background, bringing a sense of warmth and continuity to your chest. 

Last time you had been struck down by a nasty flu, to help you feel better Satoru had put on Digimon because the show always helped him. You never minded, not truly. When you were sick you’d drug yourself and fall asleep to the Digimon battles. Hardly ever, did you really pay attention to whatever was on the TV when you were sick. Hearing it now and the disjointed sneezing and coughing from the next room was just a mildly humorous reminder that even the strongest sorcerers need to rest and recoup. 

As the soup came to a beautiful finish. The smell wafted through the apartment. You peeked around the corner, mouth open and ready to call your boys that food was ready and to ask if they wanted anything else with it. Only to see them passed out on the couch in a tangle of limbs. Satoru’s head was tucked in the crook of his boyfriend’s neck while Suguru had an arm and a leg thrown over the white-haired sorcerer.

A small smile formed on your face as you quietly snuck over. You picked up a folded blanket hanging over the arm of the couch and draped it over the both of them. Just as you turned around to head back to the kitchen- a large hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging softly. You look back only to be met with vibrant gazes of violet and blue. 

Satoru’s hand held onto your wrist as Suguru reached for your other hand. Suguru’s velvety voice groggy with sick and sleep, “Come nap with us, bunny, please.”

How could you deny a request like that? A smile spreads on your face, “Oh… fine. Better not get me sick though.” You tease. Satoru huffed indignantly, as he pouted before yanking you into the cuddle pile. As you adjusted around, a sense of rightness filled your chest. It was natural the way you fit in their arms. The next episode of Digimon queued up right as your head found its spot on Suguru’s chest and held a tight grip on Satoru’s hand.

Turns out— Them being sick meant sick days for all of you. Within 48 hours of them waking up feeling sick and beginning to recover. You were sick once again.  Surrounded by a pile of tissues, and a cup of soup from the batch you made a couple of days ago, you sniffed miserably once again> The fever they had been battling now sent chills down your spine. Satoru’s face was still mildly flushed with fever, wondering aloud how you were sitting up when you looked so dizzy and out of it. Suguru scrolled through TikTok on his phone to keep his mind off being ill. At least all of you got to be together. Sure it sucked being sick but being sick with them? Made all of it a bit easier.

Looks like the Jujutsu world would have to wait. For now, your sorcerers and you? You would rest.

Hope you all enjoyed!!!

Please like, comment and reblog!

[privateandersmiths]

(I promised pilot479 that I'd post this tonight, but i was distracted by s12 stuff... so better late and full of typos then never. Also, my main blog is under totally construction, so sorry about that)

Modern Day Tuckington Au,

Retired ceramic artist Wash lives alone with a cat and hand built wood kiln, content to live the rest of his life in nice, safe, boredom, but then Tucker moves in across the street with his son Junior and step-son Caboose and Wash's quiet life comes crashing down. 

Rated for everybody, but it'll probably get dirty later, you've been forewarned. 

Part One

David Washington was not what you would call a people person. When he’d moved to Blood Gulge shores it hadn’t been for the fantastic gay community it supported. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t even none that he was moving into a ‘gay neighborhood’ when he purchased the house. He’d simply told the real estate agent that he wanted a nice place, with a big enough yard to build a wood kiln and reasonably good neighbors. She’d taken it upon herself to find him a place in a gay friendly neighborhood. How she’d known, he wasn’t about to ask. 

Of course, his sexuality was the only thing she’d gotten right. The yard was certainly big enough for a kiln, but she hadn’t told him anything about the ridiculously strict fire codes he had to work around. And the neighbors? Well, Doc and Donut were alright, they brought him organic vegetables almost once a week, and neighborhood gossip practically every morning. But his next door neighbors, Grif and Simmons? Well, if it weren’t for the fact he could hear them having make up sex as often as he could hear them fight, he’d have called the cops multiple times for a domestic disturbance. 

Then there was the fact that their were two, different, crazy guys with shotguns in the neighborhood. Sarge, according to Donut, was a widow who’s partner had died of an aspirin allergy of all things, so Wash couldn’t fault him for being a little paranoid. But Locus? He didn’t see him very often, but every time he did he felt his skin crawl. 

And then there was the house across the street. A two bedroom, that could be turned into a three if you could live without an office. It had been for as long as Wash had lived in the neighborhood. And each year that went by, the worse of a state it fell into. And as the selling price fell? So did the value on Wash’s house and every house on the block. The neighborhood council had met to discuss the possibility of demolishing it when Grif had popped up with the suggestion that they call his sister. Kaikaina, or Sister, as Grif called her, apparently knew someone looking for a house on a tight budget. That’s how everything started. 

The moving trucks arrived on a Saturday morning. Well, a pick-up truck pulling a U-Haul, and a minivan arrived. The main window in his upstairs studio looked out on to the house, and since that’s the window Wash’s throwing wheel faced, he found himself watching the move for most of the morning. 

A young woman, tan skinned and curvy, jumped out of the pick-up and slammed the door behind her. Even gay, Wash couldn’t help but notice how good she looked in her bright yellow tank top. She made her way over to the minivan as it’s doors opened. A young man, maybe ten years younger than Wash, stepped out of the driver’s side. Wash couldn’t see his face from far away, but from the way he held himself, he was probably very attractive. Short, taller than the woman, but not by much and dark skinned, that made quite the couple standing next to each other in the early morning sun. 

The hug they shared, he expected, her letting go and taking off down the street? Not so much. Disregarding his current project to watch her, he smirked when she started pounding on his next door neighbors door shouting for Grif. So this was the infamous Sister. Not wanting to check the sight of an almost naked Grif answering the door, he turned his attention back to his project and the dark skinned man currently unloading the van. And the two kids. 

Kids?

Where had the kids come from? 

The taller, and presumedly older of the kids was dark skinned like the man, who Wash was now guessing was his father, was removing boxes from the trunk and caring them up to the porch. The smaller boy, however, didn’t look even remotely like the other two. He was tan, but clearly of a different nationality. If he has to guess, he would say that the boy wasn’t related to the two. Not that it was any of his business really.

The man had moved around the minivan and was kneeling on the ground, talking to the kid. The kid didn’t seem happy with him, but he eventually nodded, jumped up, and began grabbing boxes as well. The older man stood up and stretched, shirt raising up and exposing a strip of skin. Wash blushed, and quickly returned his attention to the pot he had been attempting to throw. In his distraction it had fallen off center, and he sighed. No point in continuing it now, he scrapped his wire along the wheel and popped the ruined pot off the wheel, balling the clay up and chucking it behind into the reclaim bin. 

There was far to much clay back there in his opinion. He hadn’t had a good piece in weeks. The ones he did throw and keep were sitting in the spare room collecting dust, not even bisque fired. 

He wiped the slip off his hands and stood up from his stool, legs creaking. Rolling his shoulders, he flipped off the studio light and descended down stairs to the kitchen, he had a tea pot and a hungry cat calling his name. 

It wasn’t ten minutes, when the kettle had finished singing and he settled down onto into his couch with Maine in his lap, that he considered what he had seen. Obviously the person Sister had mentioned needing a house was actually her and her boyfriend. Grif had never mentioned having nephews so the kids were probably his and not hers. Why they didn’t look related, he wasn’t sure. He’d ask Donut next time he was over. The neighborhood gossip probably already knew everything there was to know about their new neighbors, even if he hadn’t met them yet. 

He shifted on the couch, tea finished, and Maine meowed in complaint. Picking the large cat up off his lap and placing him onto the couch, he stood up and took his cup back to the kitchen. 

After everything that had happened, all Wash had wanted was a quiet life as far away from his old circles as he could be. But even he was starting to get bored. When he was inspired? Living alone and working all day, every day was a dream. When he wasn’t… Well, he was going a little stir crazy. Maybe he should wood fire the stuff in his spare room for the simple thrill of having company over, throw that party Doc and Donut have been nagging him about. 

Done washing his cup, he turned the sink off. Without the water running, he was able to pick up on some voices shouting outside. Seemed Sister had managed to get Grif outside. 

He headed back up to his studio, ready to get to work with the new goal of a wood firing in his head, the sight that greeted him was not what he expected. His new neighbor was sitting on the curb, yelling into a cell phone while Grif, Sister, Simmons, and Doc were carrying boxes into the house with the older child. Donut was sitting in the grass playing a game with the younger boy. Whoever his new neighbor was, it seemed like everyone in the neighborhood knew him.  

The man seemed to give up on his phone call, flipping it shut and crossing his arms across his chest. He turned towards the street, and looked around. Wash startled when the man’s gaze stopped on his window. 

He didn’t know it yet, but not only was his artist block about to be over, so was his seemingly boring and quiet retirement. The rest of his life had just moved in across the street.