#sicktember 2024

[sicktember]

The Official Sicktember 2024 Prompts List

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** Text Version of the 2024 Prompts Can be Found Below.

“I’m not hungover, I’m just sick” (Or vise versa)

Too Much of a Good Thing/Overindulgence

Campus/Con Crud

“Great. I Got a Cold for My Birthday.”

Rogue Organ (tonsils, spleen, appendix, gall bladder ect…)

Dizziness/Vertigo

Borrowed Hoodie

“The closest doctor is probably hours away from here!”

Overdramatic Patient/Caretaker 

The Sniffles ™ 

Medieval Treatment

“You’re not fine, you’re throwing up/coughing up a lung”

Mononucleosis

Clean Sheets/Fresh Pajamas

"Who decided __ is ‘sick people food?’"

Toxin/Poison

Brain Fog/Spaced Out 

“My body is one big ache”

Hypochondriac Tendencies 

Medication Bribery

Anaphylactic Response

“You didn’t use my cup, did you?”

Under a Spell

 Tales From the Waiting Room

Summer Flu

Heart Condition/Cardiac Arrest

“This is non-negotiable"

Pulling a ‘Ferris Bueller’

Sick on a Road Trip

Past Prompt of Your Choice! 

Alts

Hospital Bed

“I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

First Aid Kit

Flushed Cheeks

Doctor's Note

[avengerswriter]

Hoodie thief

Summary: Y/n is sick (although she won't admit it) and steals Bucky’s hoodie. He wants it back. No can do. Let's argue about breakfast food instead?

Prompts used:

7. Borrowed Hoodie

15.” Who decided __is ‘sick person food?”

25. Summer flu

Word count: 1028

Warnings: none

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

●◇●◇●◇●◇●◇

Sweltering hot temperatures all week long. That’s what the weather app said. That’s what everyone was warning against. Drink plenty of fluids. Sunscreen. Stay inside. All the usual warnings for a normal temperature spike. So why exactly was Y/n shivering like crazy wrapped in one of her thickest blankets?

She wasn’t completely sure, just that the sun was shining through her bedroom window in greeting, and she was in no mood to stand up. Or get out of her blanket burrito. But all that said, her stomach had a dull ache that she was blaming on hunger, meaning she had to eat something.

Her body gave one more shiver as she placed her feet on the floor and hauled herself up. She wasn’t sick. Really, she wasn’t. She had too much stuff to do, like enjoying the nice weather outside. Because it was nice, and her body was just late on getting the memo. She glared at the blanket that dropped on the ground. Her lazy ass decided it was too much effort to pick it up again, so she left it. Stupid blanket.

Walking down the hallway, her summer pyjamas did nothing to help her mismatched body temperature, leaving goosebumps prickling her skin. Scowling, she stomped only slightly into the living room, gaze tracking for any movement.

No one.

Good.

Her gaze landed on an oversized hoodie that was thrown over one of the couches, and she inched closer for a better inspection. Definitely not hers... but big, black, and warm. It met all her requirements. Who cared who it belonged to?

She slipped it on, hands disappearing in the too-long sleeves. The oversized hoodie hung far enough to completely cover her shorts. She allowed a smile to cross her face. Perfect.

Except for a certain super soldier who didn’t share her feelings. Bucky glowered at her, arms crossed, “Cute. 10, 9, 8.” His voice was calm, but his eyes were narrowing in warning. Y/n knew Bucky hated when people touched his things, but by the time she realized it was his, she was already too comfortable to care.

“You’re really going to count down?”

“Take it off.” Was his only response, his irritation obvious. Y/n let out a huff, folding her arms right back at him, “No.”

“Y/n” He warned, taking a step forward. She narrowed her eyes at him, “I’m not scared.”

“My hoodie. You have your own, don’t you?”

“They’re not as comfortable! And they’re all the way in my room!” Y/n complained, pouting at him. He muttered something to himself, rubbing a finger across his brow, eyes closed, “Stop that” He snapped.

“What?”

“Pouting. Makes you too damn cute.” She smiled slightly, but before saying anything, he continued, “Why do you need a hoodie anyway? Isn’t it like 30° or something?”

"I’m cold. No, leave me alone. I want to make breakfast.”

“You’re cold?” His frown deepened, concern flickering in his eyes, only to be replaced by frustration, “And I’ll leave you alone as soon as you return my hoodie.”

“Make me.”

He lifted a surprised eyebrow at her, but there was a playful glint in his eyes now.

“You sure you want that, doll?”

“I could take you,” Y/n said, still defiant.

He walked towards her, slowly at first, and the pace made a brief flash of fear settle in her stomach. Oh, shit. She was still shivering, albeit less, and her muscles were sore. He was a super soldier with decades of training—and a metal arm to back it up.

“Wait, I didn’t mean right now,” she blurted, trying to keep the nervousness out of her tone. She forced herself not to step backwards. It would be ridiculous if she couldn’t meet her own stubbornness.

“I think now is perfect. You still have something that belongs to me.” Before she could react, he scooped her up, throwing her over his shoulder with ease. Y/n shrieked in surprise, hands scrambling to find balance as the world tilted beneath her.

“Bucky! Put me down!” He ignored her protests, walking towards the kitchen counter. Only then did he lightly place her on the marble surface, hands hovering a few inches from her waist until she caught her balance. The sudden shift upwards again made her head spin, black spots dancing in the corners of her eyes.

“Nop,” she muttered, closing her eyes, leaning her head against Bucky’s chest.

“Doll?” Concern was evident in his tone. He placed a kiss on the top of her head, hands wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer. “Yeah?” She hummed back.

“Why are you cold?”

“Flu?” she said back, almost too quiet for him to catch. He nodded along, “You planning on ignoring it?”

“I’m not sick.”

“Fine. Let me make you breakfast.”

“Just cereal.”

“Oats.” He argued, shaking his head at her choice, “You need better nutrition than that sugary stuff.”

“Yuck.” She leaned back from him, her nose scrunched up in distaste, “Who decided oats were good for sick people?”

“It’s nutrition values.”

“Could be fake,” she reasoned.

“Could be. Toast then?” He bopped her nose playfully, smiling as she swatted away his hand.

“Why do you hate me so much? I need sugar to survive,” she said dramatically.

“I mean, you did steal my hoodie.” He answered back, raising an accusing eyebrow.

“If I give it back, will you love me again?”

“Mmm no.”

“What? Why?” She gaped at him, a brief look of confusion on her face. He smiled, “It’s full of your germs now. Don’t want it anymore.”

“Hypocrite. You just hugged me.”

**

They settled on toast with jam in the end. On the couch, they watched some silly comedy, Y/n still wearing his hoodie, an extra blanket lying nearby. The water and medicine were only a precaution for when she stopped ignoring the facts.

Bucky chose to stay indoors today, and Y/n simply joined him to keep him company. No other reason. The other Avengers didn’t need extra information, even when pool day turned into movie watching instead. Nat had joined them later, settling comfortably next to Y/n and only stealing her food when she thought Y/n wasn’t looking.

[crimsonwolf715]

Borrowed Hoodie

“Jason?” 

Bruce knocks on Jason’s door. It’s only been a couple weeks since Jason moved back into the manor and everyone’s been trying to make sure that he doesn’t feel overwhelmed. Except for Damian, who seems to enjoy playing the game “how many times will Grayson chase me if I say that I’m going to go talk to Todd”. So far it’s been a dozen times in two weeks and Bruce has no idea if any of the times that Dick has lost Damian, he’s gone to go talk to Jason. Just that Jason hasn’t mentioned anything about it. 

“I’m coming in,” Bruce says as he knocks on Jason’s door again, then opens it. 

There’s a lump on the bed covered in blankets and strangely enough, a singular pillow on the top. Bruce reaches out and once he makes contact with Jason’s shoulder, he gives him a gentle shake. 

No response, so Bruce shakes him again. 

No response, so Bruce shakes him one more time. 

Still no response. 

Bruce starts pulling the covers off and once he does, Jason turns away from the bright light coming from the window. He’s flush and sweating, but definitely breathing. Bruce lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, then goes to get the thermometer. He kneels down in front of the bed and takes his temperature. One hundred and one degrees. Jason’s eyes crack open. 

“Bruce?” he asks, confusion coloring his tone. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” Bruce says softly. “I’m gonna get some medicine for you.” 

Bruce stands up, then Jason grabs his sleeve. 

“Please don’t leave me, Dad,” he begs, on the verge of tears. 

Bruce’s chest tightens, then kneels down again. “I’m not going anywhere, buddy.” 

Jason nods, but doesn’t let Bruce’s sleeve go. Bruce texts Alfred, asking him to get the medicine and The Odyssey . 

“Where do you want me?” Bruce asks. 

Jason moves and motions to the other side of the bed. Bruce goes over to the other side of the bed and sits down. Jason seems to calm down once he realizes that Bruce isn’t going anywhere. Alfred knocks on the open door, then walks in. 

“I’ve got the medicine and the book that you asked for,” Alfred says. “I also brought one of your hoodies because Master Jason never lets you keep him covered up, so I figured one of your hoodies would be better.” 

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce replies. 

“You’re welcome, Master Bruce. I’m going to go out now. Do you need anything else before I do?” 

Bruce shakes his head. “No. Thank you, Alfred. Have a good time at bingo.” 

“I will. Make sure that he doesn’t go out on patrol tonight, sir.” 

“I don’t think he’s gonna be getting out of bed, but if he does, I’ll make sure to keep him out of the Batcave.” 

Alfred leaves the room, so Bruce shakes Jason. Jason opens his eyes. After struggling for a bit and refusing for Bruce to help, Jason pulls the hoodie on, then drops back onto the bed, much closer to Bruce this time than he was at first. Bruce starts reading to him as he settles back down. He grabs a hold of Bruce’s sleeve again, presses himself against Bruce’s side. Bruce starts absentmindedly running his hand through Jason’s hair as he keeps reading. 

“I’m sorry,” Jason says. 

“For what?” Bruce asks. 

“Running away.” 

Bruce isn’t sure what time he’s talking about because there are several instances that come to mind.

“It’s alright, let’s just not make a habit out of it.” 

Jason hums in agreement, then dozes off after a while. 

“Hey, Bruce. Where are you?” Dick calls out as he walks up the stairs. 

“In Jason’s room,” Bruce says, not too loudly so he doesn’t wake Jason. 

Dick pokes his head into the room. “What are you doing in here?” 

“Jason’s sick, and he didn’t want me to leave. I had Alfred get his favorite book and hope that he still likes it. He fell asleep with a hold of my sleeve and he still has a deathgrip on it.” 

“You need anything?” 

“Could you get more medicine?” 

Dick nods, then heads out of the room. Bruce smiles at Jason, then brushes some hair away from his face. 

“I remember when you did this when you first came to the house. You were so little back then.” 

“He wasn’t that small,” Dick says as he walks back in. 

“He was small for his age,” Bruce replies. 

Dick shrugs. “Tim and Damian will be coming home soon. What are you wanting to do?” 

“I think I’ll wake him before they get home and see if he’ll let me go.” 

Dick nods. “Alright, I’m gonna go wait for them. Since Alfred’s out, I convinced Damian to help me cook dinner. I mean, he made a jab about me burning the place down if he didn’t supervise, but it’s the thought that counts, right?” 

He puts the medicine and water down, then walks out of the room. Bruce returns his attention to Jason, his second oldest. Without his normal facial expressions, Bruce can see how young Jason looks. Of course he looks older, but he’s only nineteen. 

So much pain for someone so young.  

Jason repositions slightly and Bruce notices that his eyes are open. 

“You feeling better?” Bruce asks. 

“Too warm,” Jason says, clearly not fully coherent. 

“That makes sense. Are you going to be alright here by yourself?” 

Jason nods. 

“Here, take these. It’s time for more medicine.” 

Jason lets go of Bruce’s sleeve, then takes the medicine and settles back down. Bruce gets up and heads downstairs. 

The next day

Tim watches Jason come down the stairs looking slightly confused. He walks into the kitchen and when he sees Tim and Damian at the table, he walks over. 

“What happened yesterday?” Jason asks, waving his arms for emphasis. 

“You got a twenty-four hour bug or something,” Tim answers. 

“So Father was taking care of you,” Damian adds. “He skipped patrol to keep checking on you.” 

“So who’s hoodie is this?” Jason asks. 

Tim shrugs. “I would assume yours.” 

“It looks like Father’s,” Damian says after a quick glance. 

Jason walks over to the fridge and Tim lightly elbows Damian. 

“What?” Damian asks indigently. 

“If you tell him it ruins the fun.” 

Dick comes down the stairs. 

“Do you know whose hoodie this is?” Jason asks Dick. 

“Is it mine?” Dick replies. 

“Ugh, you are no help, Grayson.” He grabs his water then storms back upstairs. 

Dick and Tim share a mischievous smile. 

“You are all so immature. I have no idea why he’s wearing Father’s hoodie, but there’s no reason to make such a big deal out of it,” Damian says, standing up. 

He rolls his eyes as he walks to take care of his breakfast dishes. 

“It’s just a little bit of lighthearted fun,” Dick says. “Jason’s all ‘I don’t care about any of you’, but he’s a big softie underneath. We just like teasing him every once in a while.”

[roguesnezblog]

Prompt 10: The Sniffles

[whumperwithwings]

Sicktember Day 12

“You’re not fine, you’re throwing up/coughing up a lung”

Whumpee coughed and coughed, desperately pulling air into their lungs in between the hacking. The door opened with a bang, slamming into the opposing wall, as Caretaker rushed to Whumpee's side.

"Whumpee! Are you okay- that's a stupid question. What's going on?"

"I'm fine" Whumpee choked out in between coughs. "No big deal."

"I'd say it's a really big deal, Whumpee. Is there any thing I can do to help you?"

Whumpee's lungs burned as they drew a ragged breath. "Stay."

[gay-for-the-snz]

Day 22: "You didn't use my cup, did you?"

I love this scenario so much, and am finally getting the chance to put pen to paper, so to speak! Many many thanks to @sicklyfruit for being so generous as to let me borrow his character Sasha for this <3 drunk snz, contagion, they're getting kinda frisky but don't actually get that far on-screen. 2.6k

⁂

The hot pink lights are casting everyone in a gorgeous glow, and the alcohol in him is making the whole room feel warm and fuzzy. He knocks back the last of his drink--something fruity and full of a random mixture of booze that is dangerously drinkable. The glass joins the others on the table, a constellation of shots and cocktails that have all been finished already and are awaiting pick-up. Nobody's come yet, though, and he knows exactly why.

"H-hH--! 'DDJZZHhuh! huH'UHZZHhue!"

He openly sprays the table, collected along the glasses and tabletop, the droplets glittering under the shimmer of the bar lights. He sniffles, blinking away the tears on his lashes, and brings a napkin up to mop at his eyes, and then his nose.

He's definitely got a cold, and he really should be at home right now, but he's out here anyway. He gets a night out so rarely, and he is hell-bent on making the most of this one. The bar isn't as warm as he thinks it should be--usually by this point, when he's in a state that everyone is more beautiful than usual and the whole world feels like it should be in harmony, he's flushed and warm and comfortable, but he's shivering a little.

And this was by design, of course--he's used this tactic a few times before, with a lot more success than he's having tonight. A shirt with thin straps and a plunging open back, that shows off his collarbones, the curve of his spine, the tattoos that adorn his wrists and upper arm. If he's cold, someone will lend him a jacket. If someone lends him a jacket, he has an excuse to talk to them, for them to come back and ensure they meet back up with him before the end of the night. If they have to hook back up with him, then he's got a chance to exchange numbers.

Perhaps people are more likely to go with someone who isn't openly, obviously contagious.

One of the waitresses dropped off a stack of napkins earlier, but those are nearly gone. The flimsy, brown paper napkins are more for show than for actual absorption--he might as well use an actual sheet of copy paper at this point--and having to stack a bunch of them together is rapidly depleting the store of them. He'll have to go beg, borrow, or steal to get a few more at some point soon, or else he'll be left with nothing to even pretend to clean himself up with.

If someone drops by and leaves him a couple of actual napkins--or, he can only hope, tissues--he might just have to drop to one knee and propose to them.

He leans across the table to flag down the waitress walking by, and she seems hesitant to stop by his table. "Can I get another--uh--" His brow furrows as he looks at the collection of empty glasses. "Whatever I got last, can I get another o' them?"

She gives him a polite, tense smile. "Sure."

"You're a peach, thank you." He flashes his most dazzling smile, and bats his pretty lashes at her. Nobody's come to pick him up yet, but he's hoping that someone will before the night's out. He'd love to have somebody at least pretend to be interested. Not that he expects them to want to shove their tongue down his throat and take him to the alley to get handsy when he's got a hellish headcold, but he wishes somebody would flatter him here.

He rubs at his nose, massaging at reddened nostrils through the napkins, but it doesn't do anything to really assuage the feeling that he's going to sneeze soon. There's not much that he can do to stop it if it's gonna happen--he knows enough to not even really bother trying--but he'd like to try and do something about it.

He gasps for it--and loses it at the last second when someone suddenly puts a hand on his shoulder. It's surprised him enough that it really stops him in his tracks.

He twists awkwardly in his chair to try and look at the interloper, and relief washes over him when he sees who it is.

"Drinking all by yourself, handsome?"

"Sasha!" He gasps in delight, pulls him into a tight hug to press kisses to his cheeks. "Oh, darlin', I didn't know you were gonna be here! I would've invited you out!"

"What's got you and your cold out here at the bar all by yourself?" Sasha's hands slide down his sides, holding him by the waist.

"Ohh, well, I was hoping to--to hh-! hDT--! eEZZHHyue! hEZZHH'iew!" He angles off to the side, openly sprays the table, and is left with a pitiful snuffle in the aftermath of it. He extracts one hand from where he's tangled them into his curls to grab a couple of napkins to scrub hard at his nose. "I was hoping to have a couple drinks, mingle a little..."

"Bless you. You're out here like this?"

"Well, I didn't--I don't get a lot of days off, y'know, and I wanted to get to go out and do stuff. I wanted to have a good night..." He leans in, nuzzling into Sasha's cheek. "...with someone else."

Sasha chuckles, and he can feel the way his voice rumbles in his throat when he leans it to give a little kiss. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Are you here with someone?" He sniffles, wetly, unable to really do much to stem the tide with just that little effort. He begrudgingly stops trying to kiss at him so he can try and stop himself from getting Sasha all gross.

"I am now, aren't I?" He kisses the tip of his nose, and the feeling sparks irritation within him. He takes a shaky gasp and leans back--but he doesn't get far enough from Sasha to really do much good.

"Sasha, I--hH'HUZZHHieww! 'DZZHhue! hEH'EZZHHyuuee!" He tries to get a hand up in time to cover, but it does little to actually protect Sasha from the heavy spray. "Ohhh, Sasha, I'm sorry--please excuse me." His nose is so touchy right now, he isn't sure what to do about it. "I didn't mean t--"

He's cut off by Sasha kissing him, pulling him close and practically climbing into his lap to get closer to him. He's shocked, but not unpleasantly so. They break apart, briefly, just long enough for Sasha to press their foreheads together. "Elliott? Shut up."

He doesn't mean it to come out so embarrassingly desperate when he gives a breathless, "okay."

Sasha climbs off, only because the waitress comes by and clears her throat as she sets his drink on the table. "Could I get you something?"

"Could I get a vodka diet Coke?"

Elliott giggles, embarrassed to have been already so publicly hungry with Sasha. When the waitress leaves, he leans close and drops his voice. "Why don't we finish these drinks and then...see about going somewhere more private?"

Sasha shrugs his jacket off, drapes it over his shoulders. "No need to rush our free night, right? You wanted your night out, and I haven't been out long. It'd be a shame to get out of here so soon."

"Oh! Right--I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, uhm--to rush you." He shivers, and sinks further into the coat. Oh, this is exactly what he wanted--he's so much more comfortable now. The sleeves are too short, but he doesn't expect anyone's to really work for him.

He takes a sip of his drink, and leans back into his seat to get a little more comfortable. The music is loud, and the lights are low, and Sasha is looking at him in a way that's making him blush just thinking of it.

"Finish your drink. I want to dance."

"With me?"

"No, with the waitress. Yes with you."

"Let me finish this--oh! No, you have to finish yours, too."

When Sasha got his drink, he isn't entirely sure, but he can see him sipping on it--

"Oh! Sasha, that's--you didn't use my cup, did you?"

Sasha looks entirely nonplussed as he sets it back on the table. "I just wanted to try it."

"Oh, but I'm--but my cold-?"

"Elliott," he drops his tone as he leans so close he can feel the warmth of his breath on his ear, "I'm taking you home. If I'm getting it, it won't be because we shared a drink. I can think of ways for us to get much closer."

He's got goosebumps at the promise. "I guess it...hardly makes a difference, does it?"

"You worry too much. I know what I'm getting myself into." He takes him by the hands, pulls him up out of his seat. "Come on--it's a shame for you to be looking so good and nobody gets to appreciate it."

"I'm afraid that everyone's had their eyes on me all night--but not for the right reasons." He's certainly aware of the looks he's been receiving all night--every sniffle, every sneeze, every pair of eyes has been on him since he first walked in and sat down. Surrounding tables have all remained empty, and he can't really blame them, even if it hurts his feelings.

He snatches the last of the napkins off the table and stuffs them into the jacket pocket, Sasha dragging him by his wrist across to the dance floor.

"They just don't know what they're missing."

The alcohol in his veins is warm and soft, and the feeling of Sasha's hands in his, trailing over his body, is equally intoxicating. He's never been much one for dancing--never been great at it, never had much occasion to practice other than hitting the couple of joints that offered line dancing--but this is a moment where the self consciousness has faded into obscurity behind the euphoria of being wanted.

The two of them are wrapped up in eachother's arms, and the world around them melts away for the duration of a song. He finds himself leaning more onto Sasha than he means to be, and the drinks are catching up with him more than he thinks they should be. Perhaps he's got the cold to blame, or perhaps it's the fact that he's gone from sitting to actually up and about, but he's starting to feel like if they want to get anything done before he's crawled into bed and snoring under the blankets, they'll probably want to look towards getting there soon.

"Sasha!" He's shouting over the music, bidding him to hold still long enough that he can truly get to him to sustain eye contact. "Go finish your drink, I think we should go soon."

"Are you sure?"

"I wanna go."

And Sasha, who never agrees to anything without a fight, seems to accept it quietly. It shocks him to his core, and he half wonders if he's come across too harsh or too strange in the way he's asked him.

He wasn't planning on driving home, so he's allowed himself more than a few drinks to take advantage of this fact, but clearly Sasha was planning the same, because they're both awkwardly huddled on the sidewalk while they try to hail a cab.

"Sasha," he huddles closer to him to try and steal some of his warmth, shivering even under the jacket, "I'm so sorry. I'm so goddamn drunk." He clumsily crosses himself, practically signing over the both of them since they're held so close.

"I know. We're going home, and I'll take good care of you."

"I'm going to give you my cold."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"What?"

"Come on, the cab's here."

He practically pours him into the backseat, and he leans in comfortably against him, nuzzling into his embrace. "You're so handsome."

"I've been told that before."

"By me?"

"By people other than you, even."

"Everyone should tell you, because it's true." He's pressing loving kisses along his jaw, like he can't get any closer to him if he tried. He wishes he could. He wishes they could spend the rest of their lives right like this, drunk and lustful and romantic, wrapped up in eachother's arms and prepared to turn the whole world into their oyster.

"I'm sure they tell you that you're handsome, too."

"Not enough. I wish they would tell me more often." He twists so he can lay his back against Sasha's chest, feeling his arm wrapped around him to pull him closer. It's an inopportune time, but he's caught off guard by the feeling that swells within him so suddenly he doesn't have any real opportunity to do anything about it.

"hH'EGZZHhue! yEIZZHHuue! hh-! hH--!? hEIZZHhieww! 'DZZHhyue!"

The partition glitters like the night sky, the spray coating the divider catching the light from the streetlights and headlights that pass them by. He sniffles thickly, pats the empty pockets that have nothing left to offer him, and can't help the pitiful whimper at the realization.

"Here." Sasha offers him salvation in the form of a half empty travel pack of tissues, and the relief is overwhelming.

"Sasha, I think we should get married."

"Is this all it takes?"

He's too busy tearing the plastic open to blow his nose with significantly less reserve than he usually shows to actually answer him, but he seems to take that as an answer in and of itself.

"Alright then. What's our wedding gonna be like?"

"Mm...something intimate. Outdoors."

"With your allergies?"

"We'll make red one of our wedding colors. It'll match my nose."

"You're insane." He doesn't seem to mind, though, because he's already pushing his braid aside so he can bite at his throat, threatening to bruise him right here in the backseat of the cab.

He lets his head loll to the side, hands still tented with the tissues even though he's gotten distracted from his task of blowing his nose. "Not here--oh!--oh, Sasha, not here--"

He nibbles on his earlobe. "You don't seem like you're really wanting me to stop..."

"I don't--no, I mean I do--"

"Fine, fine." He doesn't seem mad about it, but he feels sheepish nonetheless, that nagging little fear in the back of his mind that Sasha might change his by the time they get there.

"Are you going to--t--hH'DTZZHhue! hUH'UZZHhyuue! Ohh...excuse mbe--" He'd normally be a lot more bashful about burning through the packet of tissues so quickly, but they're not going to be in the car for terribly much longer, and he's sure that there'll be something in Sasha's apartment to be able to tend to his nose.

"Bless you..."

"Why're you so sweet to me?"

"I'm just a nice guy."

He doesn't mean to laugh in his face, but he does. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"

"You wound me. You don't think I'm a nice guy?"

"No, I do! I do, it's just--you're very nice, especially to me. I just don't hear the same thing from other people..."

"It's Florence, isn't it?"

"I--well, there's really no saying who it's from--"

"So it's Florence."

"It's Florence, yeah."

"She just doesn't get to benefit from my kindness because she hasn't earned it. You, on the other hand..."

Sasha's apartment complex climbs into view, and he's practically clambering out of the cab the instant it parks. Sasha can't pay the man fast enough for his liking, and he's practically dragging him up the stairs as they go, the jacket around his shoulders warming him almost as much as the feeling welling up within his chest.

He's already pawing at Sasha's collar while he's unlocking the door, trying to get his buttons undone. "Sasha."

"Yeah? Jesus, you just can't wait, can you?"

He nuzzles a red nose in against his neck, kissing at whatever he can reach. "You're going to catch this."

Sasha gets the door open, flashes him a knowing look over his shoulder as he drags him inside by the wrist. "I'm counting on it."

[nolesserhuman]

be nice to me.

sicktember prompt 7: borrowed hoodie. PM Dazai + reader ~2400 words warnings: none also on ao3.

“—I’m cold.”

“Yeah, ‘s what happens when there’s no meat on your bones.” Even though you scoff at Dazai’s complaint, you’re already on your feet and padding towards the linen closet in the hallway. There’s a few old blankets folded and stacked on the shelves. You don’t put too much thought into which one you grab; maybe you should have, because when you drape it over Dazai’s sprawled-out form, he whines again.

“Don’t you have anything warmer?” He pouts up at you even as he pulls the threadbare throw up to his chin. His unbandaged eye is glassy; he’s already gaunt, but now he seems breakable; even with his new blanket, Dazai is still visibly trembling.

If you think about it, you should probably be glad he showed up on your couch instead of hiding away in his damned shipping container. This is about as close as you’ll ever get to him admitting he needs some kind of help.

Dazai lets out a dry cough, rolling over on the couch so he can press his face into the plush cushions. That does nothing to hide his sniffles. You roll your eyes and reach over to pluck at his shirt, damp with sweat. “Stop contaminating my sofa, you bastard.”

“‘M gonna go contaminate your bed next.”

You just roll your eyes again.

Dazai doesn’t move when you prop yourself on the arm of the couch, just above his messy head. He knows what’s next— he feels your hand dip into his damp curls and, embarrassingly, he leans into the touch. Your palm is cool against his burning scalp. He could finally fall asleep like this.

Unfortunately— predictably— good luck doesn’t surface this time. Your concerned hum breaks through the fragile drowsiness that had begun to settle over him. “You’re warm,” you say quietly. Dazai would argue that— he is shivering, after all. Before he can snark back at you, though, his breath catches in his lungs, and he curls in on himself in another coughing fit. Misery hits all at once; he can’t breathe, he can taste sick in the back of his throat, and he’s both freezing and overheating as his protective layer of bandages irritates his skin.

You make a vague noise of sympathy and pat his heaving back until he can breathe again. “—I think some steam would help with that.” You tug on the brunet strands at the base of his neck until he groans.

“Too much effort,” he rasps. And then he sneezes hard enough that his head bounces off the back of your couch. “Shit.”

“C’mon now,” your voice gets firm. “If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you. Entire way there.”

That threat is enough to send an unfamiliar pulse up Dazai’s spine; he’s not sure if it’s pleasant or uncomfortable, but he doesn’t care enough to analyze his own feelings right now, not when it feels like his head is stuffed full of cotton. Instead, he lets out another long whine— like a puppy that doesn’t want to go for its walk— but hauls himself upright anyways.

It takes some struggling, some wrangling; despite his height advantage, Dazai is stick thin and incredibly easy to manhandle once you actually get your hands on him. Eventually you get him to fold his gangly legs underneath himself and sit on the bathroom floor. Even as you’re turning the shower on, he’s clearing his throat and trying to stifle another coughing fit.

As soon as the hot water is on, the entire bathroom begins to heat up, and Dazai visibly relaxes, the shivers finally vanishing. He lets out another weak cough as the gunk in his chest starts to loosen up.

“Now,” you fix him with a firm stare as he tries to get comfortable on the tile floor. “I’d better not turn around and find you digging through my bedroom or somethin’, okay?”

Dazai rolls his eyes and scoffs. “As if you own anything interesting to begin with.” Still, he’s not in the headspace to argue the way he would on a normal day; his head is fuzzy, and the gathering moisture in the bathroom is already dampening his gauze wraps. He’s the very picture of a wet kitten.

You close the bathroom door behind you and Dazai is left alone with his thoughts.

Not needing to keep up a facade once he’s out of eyesight, Dazai scrambles over to the shower, half-hanging over the edge of the tub as he hacks up a wave of gunk. He doesn't care that the shower water is soaking his hair and clothes as long as it washes away the slime leaving his lungs. It looks gross, it tastes gross, and Dazai is sure your neighbors in the next unit have a very low opinion of him right now— but, after a few long moments, airflow comes easier. He’s finally able to take a few deep, shuddering breaths that fill his aching lungs with more steam and warm him from the inside.

Now that he’s breathing again, Dazai’s self-awareness kicks back in. Wet hair he can deal with, but feeling the warm droplets roll down his neck and soak into his shirt, his damp bandages curling and itching against his sensitive skin? Too much too much.

You’re alone in here, Dazai reminds himself. One of his hands absently fidgets with the buttons on his wet dress shirt, delicate fingers tapping against the smooth plastic. It’s okay, it’s okay— you’re alone.

With one more deep breath, Dazai peels his wet clothes off all at once. He shudders, not because of the temperature change that hits his skin, but because all his shields are down. Vulnerability is worse than sickness.

The steam in the room has Dazai’s sinuses draining as he works; he swipes his bandaged wrist under his dripping nose only to immediately sniffle again. In the back of his mind, he can already hear you fussing about how outright gross that was. It’s always nice when his typical inner monologue is replaced by your voice.

His gauze seems almost like a moisture magnet, because even the strips that didn’t get caught in the shower stream are sopping wet and heavy. That makes it a bit harder to unravel his defenses, but eventually Dazai is standing alone and fully bared. Thank whatever god that the mirror is already fogged— he’s not sure he could handle the full image of his own body, gaunt and frail, coming apart at the seams. It’s too much.

There’s gauze in the towel closet. He’s seen it on the second shelf, next to your oft-used first aid kit he’s come to know so well. When he gets his hands on the packaging, Dazai is pleasantly surprised to see you’ve stocked up on his preferred brand, the only one that doesn’t irritate his raw skin. Probably just coincidence.

Dazai is well-practiced in the delicate art of wrapping himself back up; even with no suspiciously-fresh wounds, it often feels like the strips of cotton are the only thing holding his fragile body together. Once he’s nice and snug in his second skin— and boxers, for the modesty he pretends he doesn’t have— Dazai cracks the bathroom door open and peers out into the hallway.

After being stuck in such a warm room, the air conditioning feels nice against his flushed face. You’re nowhere in sight and, judging by the sounds of clattering metal down the hallway, it seems you’re probably engrossed in putting a meal together. Meaning you’re very distracted. Perfect.

Dazai leaves the shower water running so you don’t suspect anything as he darts across the hall and into your bedroom. He shivers again as he nudges the door closed behind him— the breeze of movement against his damp skin had only been nice for a moment before getting too cold again. As long as he’s in this body, he thinks he’ll be miserable.

There’s probably not too much time before you abandon your chore to come check on Dazai, meaning he’s limited on how much snooping he can accomplish before he’s caught. Still, your bedroom is so full of your presence, even when empty, and he can’t help but try and commit it to memory; the patterns on your bedsheets, the titles on your bookshelves, the pictures on the wall. It vaguely crosses his mind that he should add his own photo to the mix sometime and see how long it takes before you notice. 

No time for that now, though. Dazai makes a beeline for your closet and tosses the door open.

When he thinks about it, your choice in casual clothes amuses him— the Port Mafia does have a semblance of dress code, so most of the shirts hanging here are things he’s never seen you wear. His hand drags across the various fabrics, enjoying some textures, jolting away from others. Ah, if only there wasn’t such a size difference between you both— he’d love to slip into one of the frillier shirts, just to see your reaction.

And finally his delicate fingers brush against an item he recognizes. It’s that oversized hoodie you’ve worn to the office more than once— the only item in your closet that he’s sure will fit his frame as well.

Fitting his broad shoulders is the main reason he’d been hoping to find that particular hoodie, but Dazai is still mildly surprised at how easily he’s able to slip it on, immediately enveloped in a sense of comfort he’s not sure he’s ever experienced. While it’s huge on you, it’s only a bit big on him; the hemline falls just past his hips, the sleeves almost long enough to cover his hands, and the whole thing is practically drenched in that perfume you’re always wearing. Dazai brings the fleecy fabric up to his nose and inhales deeply— in this borrowed hoodie and with his head clear for the first time all day, Dazai finally feels some level of okay.

There’s no time to stand around, though. If he lets the shower water run too much longer, you’ll demand he pay this month’s bill.

Dazai sneaks back into the hallway, making sure neither door slams shut as to not alert you to his wandering. With the hot water having run for so long, the tiny bathroom is nearly stifling, and he can immediately feel sweat beading at his hairline as he shuts the shower off. His clothes are still sitting abandoned on the bath mat, and he’d only bothered to kick the bandage wrappings in the general direction of the trash— meh, he’s sure you’ll make him pick it all up later.

There’s no real reason to creep down the hallway this time— you’re well aware that Dazai is in your apartment, after all, so he has no real reason to sneak around. Still, he finds himself toe-walking to keep his footsteps light as he passes the kitchen where you’re still banging things around as you cook.

Your back is to the door, so you definitely don’t see him as he tries to sneak past, but you seem to have a sixth sense when it comes to Dazai. “Are you feeling any better? Haven’t heard any coughing.”

At that Dazai forces out a light cough, not even able to make it sound bad now that his airway has cleared. “I think it’s terminal.”

“Mmm, too bad,” you hum without looking away from the stovetop. “Go lay back down an’ try not to die on my couch, okay?”

You hear Daza scamper away, no longer trying to hide his footsteps, and something prickles at the base of your neck. It’s suspicious when Dazai doesn’t argue.

Knowing your boss, Dazai probably hasn’t eaten in at least a day, possibly longer if his illness has smothered his already-rare appetite. Getting him to eat is hard enough on a normal day. Lifting the frypan off the burner, you slide the sandwich onto a plate before fishing cookie cutters out of a drawer. Chop the sandwich into cute shapes, spoon some tomato soup into a patterned bowl— it’s like you’re trying to entertain a toddler into eating their veggies.

“You’d better take at least a few bites,” you order as you carry the food into the living room. “I went through all the effort of a gourmet grilled cheese—” your voice falls off as you peer over the back of the couch, only to be greeted by Dazai wearing something that definitely doesn’t belong to him. That’s one of your favorite hoodies; it’s a bit surprising it fits him. “—where did you get that?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dazai hums, stretching out so his long legs hang over the far end of the couch. He makes a show of pulling the hood up until it covers his eyes. “It suits me, no?”

You just sigh. When you nudge him, he grumbles, but wordlessly makes room for you to join him on the sofa. As soon as you’re settled, he drops his head in your lap to use your warm thighs as a pillow. “You coulda just asked, y’know. Instead of sneaking around. I would’ve let you wear it anyways.”

The tone of your voice is different now. Dazai tilts his head back to read your face. “—you don’t mind?” He can’t quite get a read on you when you’re toeing the line of being too nice.

“Just eat your damned food,” you blatantly avoid the question by shoving the plate of warm food into his hands.

Dazai wriggles with a dramatic “noooo!” only for his whining to stop when you shove one of the sandwich bites into his open mouth. He pouts but doesn’t spit it out.

Your hand comes down to tug the hood back off his head, just far enough for you to slip your fingers back into his hair, and Dazai once again leans into your touch as he reaches for another bite of food. Even when he’s difficult, you stay gentle with him.

Dazai is only able to eat a little bit before his sensitive stomach begins to complain and he turns his face away. For once, he’s nice and full; the borrowed hoodie is deliciously warm, the itch to cough has vanished, and your hand in his hair is hypnotic. For the first time in a long time, Osamu Dazai manages to drift off into a pleasant sleep.

aaaaaaa I've never done sicktember before on any account and I know I literally had a death in the family but I'm irked that I wasn't able to finish much during the actual month,, I know the whole point is just to have fun but I'm only just now beginning to try and get over my perfectionism and stuff fghjhgfd

idk if anyone will read these so ig I'll just talk a lil bit. but man I started writing really young, and after college I feel like my writing got super messed up in comparison to how it used to be, so I'm really doing my best to try and get back to something I'm happy with. I've never written anything besides reader inserts!! I've also never ever finished a piece that had more than one chapter, even though I've been doing this for over a decade dfghjnhgfd. I want to start practicing other stuff!! but reader inserts are fun bc I wanna kiss the anime boys lmao

anyways!! I think I'm gonna keep trying to finish all my planned prompts even though we will definitely be rolling into at least october, possibly longer. and if I may be so bold, likes/comments/reblogs are all appreciated dfghgfd. if you read all this, thank you!!

[smallandsneezy]

Too Much of a Good Thing

 the estate gardener who is wildly allergic to flowers fucking the governess. this is a sicktember post, but I'm dreadfully late. so happy day two on day 14!

Evangeline had always taken great pleasure in the way her heeled boots sounded as they clicked down the hallway. The combination of the tapping shoes and the way that her long woolen skirt swished against her legs made her feel powerful and prepared, had her stand a little straighter. It was with that straight bearing that she came around the corner and nearly ran straight into Joseph, the manor’s gardener.

“Oh!” she startled, teetering precariously back on the boots she had just been so pleased with.

He reached out for her, his big callused hands grasping her shoulders and steadying her. 

She rebalanced and he released her, stepping back sheepishly. Getting a better look at him, she realized he was covered in dirt, from the patches on his knees to the beds of his finger nails. 

“Done with lessons for the day, miss?” he asked brightly. The two talked relatively regularly, often passing each other in the garden when Evangeline went out for her daily constitutional. 

“What have you been working on that’s got you so filthy?” she teased, beaming at him to show she was kidding. 

He brightened at the chance to talk about his flowers. “Oh, the most lovely chrysanthemums miss! This variety really shines this time of year.”

“I hadn’t known anything bloomed in October,” she mused. 

“The late fall bloomers do, miss. I could…show you sometime.” Joseph offered shyly. He looked almost shocked at his own gall and seemed to be already bracing for her indignant response.

Evangeline smiled almost ear to ear. Why not? It was 1910 now, after all, and she was trying to devote herself to living more adventurously. 

“I think now would suffice if you’re amenable.”

A similar grin to hers spread across the man’s face, making him all the more handsome. 

“Let us go then.”

--

She should have seen it coming. His nose had been growing steadily redder with every moment that they spent in the garden. He hadn’t commented on it though, even as it twitched steadily more with every flower he showed her. 

“And these, of course, are the chrysanthe-” he broke off quite suddenly, his eyes glazing over. 

“Are you quite alright, sir?”

The man’s mouth was agape, his nose positively rosy by now. “I…I…” He stuttered, look humiliated.

Was he going to…

“HURUSHOO! Huh…huh…AHISHAH!” He practically bellowed them, too distracted by the itch to cover, and Evangeline felt a heat between her legs start up. Her glasses were soaked in his spray, and he looked horrified. 

“Goodness! Bless you!”

“I’m…HRUSHOOO! huh…HUH…HRASHAH! I’m so so sorry ma’am.” Joseph said shyly, a flush floating high over his cheeks. 

She could only blink and remove her glasses to clean them. She had never understood when people said they were ‘speechless’ before, but now she did. 

“Oh…Again…huh! Hahh!!—HATSCHIEWW!!!” That one had doubled him over, and Evangeline felt her breath start to quicken. 

“It’s all the flowers…Too much of a good thing, I suppose. They’re always doing me in. HUHRESHOO!!”

Evangeline couldn’t bear it. She leaned in and kissed him, wet nose and all. 

He stiffened slightly, clearly surprised, but relaxed almost instantly, kissing her back, sniffling frantically every time they stopped for breath. He pulled her into a flowered alcove, thick with bushes and chamomile. She pressed up against him, breathing hard. He placed his leg in between hers, and she pressed herself into it, it taking every ounce of her gentle upbringing not to whine with pleasure. Abruptly he pulled out of their kiss, nostrils flaring. “HAHRESHOOO!! HAH…HAH…HARASHOOO!” He, having no choice otherwise, had pressed himself into her bosom, which was now drenched in spray. These were wet sneezes, and he seemed to have no handkerchief on him. She offered hers to him now, but when he reached for it desperately she pulled it back. Now he was the one whining, his red itchy eyes begging her for it. 

She wrapped the dainty handkerchief, with her around his swollen nose. “Blow.”

“Miss, I can’t. It’ll get all wet, I can’t do that to a lady. I don’t need to, I’m perfectly well.”

She pulled it back from his anguished grasp and plucked a chamomile flower from beside them. 

“Miss?” Joseph asked. 

“If you don’t need to, surely this won’t be a problem.”

She danced the chamomile across his nostrils, which pulsed with irritation.

“I’m…ahh….AHH…AHH AHHCHOO! HAHSHOOOO!! I’m so allergic miss.”

She raised her eyebrows, brandishing the handkerchief. “And?”

“Please! Please let me have the handkerchief.”

“Okay. Since you asked so nicely.”

She extended her handkerchief and gently covered his nose with it. “Now, blow.”

He did so, with gentle soft blows. He did indeed drench the handkerchief, and she could feel the dampness against her hand. It made her shudder. 

“Thank you miss,” he whispered. 

She kissed him on the nose.