#fever and chills | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kyouka-supremacy · 4 months

Text

Again the sickness speaking but here's something that has been going through my mind since forever:

I feel like a good way to mitigate a lot of discontent with the doa arc ending and in general the whole Dazai-being-flawless issue bsd has going on is by comparing bsd to Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle. Please bear with me for two minutes.

When Sherlock Holmes was being published, people were intrigued and enamoured by Holmes' brilliant and charming, crimes-solving figure. People read the stories for the pure joy of being left gaping at his superhuman wits again and again; they didn't want to see him fail, they wanted to be shocked and amazed by his genius. When Holmes died and then came back, nobody lamented it being unrealistic, because realism was not what people were reading the books for! They were reading to be impressed, to cheer for the hero and then take satisfaction in seeing him turn out victorious. That's the author-reader deal that was made there: to impress and to enjoy being impressed.

As of recently I feel like we've been asking from bsd something it never promised us in the first place. Maybe it's just not that kind of series! Maybe it's more about surprising the reader with how the hero is going to make it and less about highlighting his flaws and insecurities. And like, that's okay! That's why Dazai getting away with it isn't it him getting away with it “again”, it's just how bsd is; in a way, it's what makes bsd bsd.

I think it really clicked with me like it never did before when I watched the last episode of season 5; because the arc ending felt so shocking and unpredictable, very deus-ex-machina trope, a little underwhelming in its lowering the stakes that were there the whole time, and yet so extremely on brand with bsd, I didn't even have it in me to be disappointed. It was so similar to the Guild's arc ending and even more to the Cannibalism arc ending, and maybe it really is just a pattern, maybe it really is what bsd aspires to be, and that's okay too.

Also, I can't stretch this enough: if it's not your cup of tea, that's fine. I can't say it's mine either. But I feel like criticizing bsd now for how it's always been falls quite short, because it really feels like demanding from it what it never promised to deliver in the first place. That's just as far as my current perception of the series goes, though, so feel free to disagree with me on this.

#Btw this is not me comparing Holmes character with Dazai character.#Holmes character is something Dazai character will never be (respectful of women)#The also real difference between Holmes and Dazai is that one author loathes the character with everything that's in them–#and the other author loves the character with everything that's in them #I've also briefly mentioned before that Atsushi is a very Watson-like figure in the way it uses as someone deeply human‚#sympathetic to the reader and that the reader can see themselves in‚#plot device so that Holmes has someone he can explain his deduction to and with his awe further underlines and uplifts Holmes' genius #Also sassy #osamu dazai #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd s5 #Wow and here's me putting my season 5 thoughts down after three months. Took a raging fever for me to do so #To be fair when the episode dropped everyone was a bit crazy over the ending for one reason or the other #So back then I felt like waiting things to chill out first #mine #I often find superfluous to end posts with “feel free to disagree with me on this” because it's so obvious and expected it goes unsaid #But I suppose sometimes it bears repeating...

146 notes · View notes

warmblanketwhump · 11 months

Note

What about something with a whumpee who falls through ice?

this turned into some kind of winter epic but I hope you enjoy 😂

One minute, A's standing on the frozen lake, waving at B and C back on the shore. The next, they hear a sharp crack—and they're through the ice and underwater.

The cold feels like a thousand knives—so blinding that A can't see or feel, much less figure out which way is up or down. After a few seconds, they gain their bearings, only to feel the horrifying thud of the solid ice above their head.

Their desperate scream is muted as they hit the ice once, twice, three times, to no avail—

get me out get me out get me OUT

Their lungs burn as they fail to hold their breath any longer, and they suck in a mouthful, then another of water, colors swirling and flashing as their pleas for oxygen go unheard—

—until suddenly their fingers punch through to sharp, clean winter air. A sputters and coughs as their lungs fight to expel water, and they whirl around as they try to get their bearings, then seeing B and C waving and shouting something their ears can’t quite parse out.

A frantically claws at the ice at the edge of the hole, a pained sound escaping from their throat as the thin ice breaks every time they try to grab hold. They feel their muscles seizing up, but force themselves to keep kicking, keep fighting. They can't die. Not like this.

But as the minutes drag on, and B & C are nothing more than moving blurs of color on the shore and their limbs begin to stiffen, the fight within them starts dwindling.

Hold on, A. Come on. Hold on. Don't give in.

“A! Grab on!” A rope suddenly appears a few inches from them, and A kicks toward it with all their might. Their fingers are too numb to hold on very tightly, but they manage to wrap it around their wrist several times and give a weak tug.

“P-p-pull!” It’s a choked whimper, but B and C must hear their small voice because they feel the tug against their skin, then feel their numb, burning limbs scraping over the ragged surface of the ice as they’re dragged back to the blessedly solid shoreline.

As their trembling body meets the cold black rock of the shore, they’re consumed with the terror of what just happened. But when they take a breath to sob, they’re choked by more coughing as their body fights to rid their lungs of the frigid lake water.

B rips off their coat and wraps it around A’s quaking body, hoisting them up in their arms, gently stroking their rapidly freezing hair from their forehead. “Shhh…you’re okay. You’re okay. We’ll warm you up in no time.”

A can’t still their clattering teeth or their gasping breaths enough to respond.

————————

An hour later, A’s still violently shivering despite being wrapped in a blanket, their feet submerged in a steaming bucket of warm water, seated in the chair closest to the fire. They cinch the blanket tighter with cold, aching fingers, pulling it up over their ears and nose. The fire is banked high and crackling, but it does little to displace the bone-deep chill in their core or quiet their rattling teeth.

The first minutes after the rescue were hazy—first jostling and numb as B carried them and sprinted back to the cabin, then cold and dark, and murmuring voices, and frozen clothes peeled away and replaced with warm, dry ones on their ice-cold skin. Slowly, the colored blobs gave way to the forms of their frantic friends, wool blankets, muttered curses and sparks that turned to a healthy flame.

If only warmth would come.

The thought of getting warm was all-consuming for A as they shiver with chills. The bucket of hot water was somehow painfully hot and just not warm enough. The blanket around their shoulders was too thin, and they could still feel the icy water on their skin. The fire should be bigger. But none of the thoughts can make it out of their clattering jaw with any semblance of order.

However, as if B heard their thoughts, A feels them gently drape a second blanket around their shoulder, then feels their hands sweep up and down their back to generate warmth.

C watches them from the other side of the hearth, poking at the fire to stir the flames, eyeing A with concern. “How are you feeling?"

An honest answer bubbles up in their mind. I thought I would die down there.

Instead, they force out a weak “J-just c-c-cold,” before coughs steal their voice again. And though not their first thought, it is true. They weakly rub their arms with shaky hands, desperate to try and help B generate a spark of heat. “I c-can’t g-get warm.”

At that, B leaves and then returns to the fire with something wrapped in towels, handing it to A. “Here. This will take the edge off a bit more. You've had quite a chill.”

A clutches the warm bundle closer to their body, desperate for the warmth to permeate their core. “Th-th-thanks.” Another round of coughing burns in their chest, the lake water still unyielding. They feel B’s hand on their shoulder, rubbing gently, and they look up to see B’s concerned frown as their hand traces up to their damp hair.

“We shouldn’t leave your head wet. Don’t want you getting sick.”

A doesn’t have the energy to explain that they just spent a substantial amount of time in a freezing lake, which pretty much negated the benefits of keeping their head warm by now. But they don’t mind the feeling of B gently toweling the melting water droplets out of their hair, and they lean into the soft touch long after their hair is dried.

A figures they must look pitifully cold, because B continues to run their fingers through their hair, and C, who usually avoids most physical touch, hugs A close to them on their other side, helping them sip from the cup of tea since their hands are too shaky to hold it.

Three hours later, A’s still deathly pale, but they can manage an intelligible sentence, and their hands are still enough to curl around another mug of tea, and they’d managed to eat a little soup for dinner. What their friends can’t see is the ice that clings to A’s bones, the superficial heat unable to thaw the chill that had gripped their core. They're out of the danger zone, but they're still just....cold.

Between the exhausting hours of shivering and the events of the day, it's no surprise when their head starts bobbing, and their eyelids start feeling like they’re weighted. They’re not sure when the transition from waking to sleeping happens—they only feel someone gently lifting their bundled form off the couch to take back to their bedroom. B leaves and returns with two more blankets, draping each of them in turn over A and tugging them up to their chin. “You just rest now,” B whispers, gently smoothing down A’s hair before.

Despite the warm layers, A just can’t chase the cold out of their achy bones. Chills crawl across their skin, and they clutch the pouch of hot water closer, trying to envision themselves sinking into a hot spring, or sunning themselves in a field on a hot summer day.

A strange childhood memory resurfaces in a dream—of swimming in a frigid lake too long on a hot summer’s day and emerging blue-lipped and chilled through, of a relative wrapping them in a dry blanket and holding them close in the warm sun.

The memory is full of comfort and they long to re-enter it—but the memory frosts at the edges, and they slip out of the dream-relative’s arms and are plunged back into the lake. The lake freezes over and washes over their ankles, knees, waist as the cold seeps back in, unrelenting, unreleasing, coming from the inside out.

The black water rushes up to their neck now, but A's frozen in place, unable to move or even scream as the water closes over their head—

—and suddenly they're awake, coughing up a lung, unable to take a full breath. Somehow, they’re colder under the blankets than they were in the lake, like the lake had stolen their fire and left them an icy, empty shell. At the same time, they feel sweat prickle on the back of their neck, chilling in the cold air, and as A struggles to draw in a full breath, they get the sensation that something is very, very wrong.

The rest of the night consists of hours of restless tossing and turning, sweating and shaking, trying to stifle the relentless coughs. They wake in the early blue dawn feeling chilled and congested, chest heavy like an iron bar is resting across them. A draws the blankets closer and rubs their arms, trying to generate a little warmth in their achy bones. Everything hurts—even the joints in their fingers and toes, and there's a violent cough that burns in their rib cage every time it seizes their lungs.

The fireplace. That's warm.

The thought of heat propels A to jerk to an upright position. As the blankets tumble off their shoulders, the wintry air sends a sudden, violent chill throughout their whole body, rattling their teeth so hard they're scared they chipped a tooth. Bad idea. They scramble for the top quilt, fumbling as they wrap the precious layer back around themselves and dive back under the covers.

But it’s not warm enough—nothing is warm enough. They hug their knees to their chest and huddle under the blankets, too wracked with shudders to embark on the trek to the fireplace, too exhausted to move, chest burning, and so, so scared.

They don’t know how long they lay there, trembling and coughing, alone. They only feel the hand rest on their shoulder, then move up to their forehead to push away the damp hair, a whispered curse floating out into the air that they can see.

Why can I see words?

Why is my hair still damp?

B's face enters their field of vision, their cool hand on A's forehead.

Why is B cold?

Amid the thoughts, A hears pounding footsteps. They barely register that B is gone before B is back, dragging a half-awake C with them.

"B? What's wrong?" C’s voice is hazy from sleep, and A sees them rub the sleep away from their eyes.

"A's caught a bad chill from the cold water. And they're burning up."

"My....my chest...." A gasps out.

C comes closer, leaning against A’s chest to listen more intently to the rattling sound that comes every time A breathes, then lays the back of their hand against A's cheek. When their face is visible again, it's painted with ridges of concern.

"B, get the fire going."

"C, what's wro—"

"B, now." C's tone sends another chill down A's spine. "And get some water boiling, and those herbs from the pantry."

C's voice is so firm that B doesn't question it again, and scurries off to the main room.

Despite B not receiving an answer, A has to know. In their weak, cough-roughened voice, they rasp out two words: “What's.....happening?"

C gives a small smile, meant to comfort, which only confuses A's feverish brain further. "After your little swim yesterday, you’ve come down with a bout of winter fever."

Winter fever. The words alone send an ice pick through their heart. Winter fever makes its way through their village every year during the coldest months, stealing breath and warmth and life from too many to count. It can strike after a bad chill, or getting one’s feet wet, or even if you don’t warm yourself enough by the fire.

“Am…am I gonna die?”

"Shhhh....you'll be fine. I've helped many a relative through winter fever, and you're going to be no exception.”

A nods, still scared, but anchored by C’s confident voice.

Ten minutes later. A is plopped in front of a fire that's even bigger than yesterday, a pot of water giving off steam that casts a cloudy haze in the main sitting room. They’re nested in two warm blankets, hot water bottles at their feet and on their stomach to try and combat the constant fever chills.

C slowly peels away the layers of B’s blankets and pajamas over their upper body, exposing the skin of their chest to the cool air of the room. A grits their teeth to hide the chill that threatens to tear through them as they feel the goosebumps prickle over their whole body, squeezing their eyes shut at the painfully strange sensation.

Then, a pleasant warm feeling spreads across their chest, and A opens their eyes to see C laying a steaming towel soaked in some type of herb-scented mixture. It’s strong and pungent and not particularly good-smelling, but A instantly feels some of the tightness in their chest ease at the warmth and the medicinal scent.

“Old family remedy. It’ll ease the pain a bit and get you breathing better to get your lungs fighting again.” C nods toward B, who’s refilling a bubbling pot over the fire. “The steam will help, too.”

A coughs weakly, a sharp, rattling sound that makes both B and C tense. “Wish…wish I’d never gone on that lake,” they say, bottom lip trembling. On top of feeling awful, they’ve trapped B and C into caring for them. “Now you’re stuck helping me.”

“Hey, hey, none of that.” C’s at their side, carefully thumbing away the tear that’s slipping down their cheek. “You’d do the same for any of us. Who knows, I’ll probably break a leg hunting, or B will accidentally poison themselves with some root they think is edible.”

A tries to laugh, but a cough steals away their breath. “M’sorry for crying. The past couple days…”

“They’ve been rough, I know, love. I know.” C’s hand cups around A’s cheek, then drapes down to squeeze their shoulder. “But we’re with you. You don’t have to do this by yourself, okay?”

A nods readily, not trusting themselves to speak.

C nods back, glancing back at the fire. “It’s time to change the cloth—don’t want you getting chilled.”

A’s too tired to do more than just track C with their eyes as they move to the fire, get a new cloth, and swap out the cooling one with the gentlest of movements all while keeping A nested in blankets. They’re still feverish and achy and so tired, but the fear is evaporating as quickly as the steam from the pot over the fire.

I’m not alone.

#whump prompt #cold whump #falling through the ice #chills #fever whump #pneumonia #ALL OF IT #near drowning

253 notes · View notes