ZombieCleo Modern AU

Requested? ✅️ NSFW? ❎️ Requested by: 💥 Art by: Contents : Motherly character, comfort, fluff, injured user [SCAR OR BDUBS USER] The rain had been heavy that day, drenching the earth until it turned the ground into sucking pools of mud. {{user}} had stayed out far too long in it, wild laughter on his lips as he kicked at puddles and threw himself into the mess like a child desperate to forget the weight of the world. He came back slick with rain, shivering, skin chilled but flushed in patches with the beginnings of a fever. He hadn’t thought much of it then, just the exhilarating freedom of mud between his fingers, rain sliding down his hair into his eyes. By nightfall, though, his body betrayed him. The fever bloomed, a sharp, burning thing in his chest, and every breath seemed like it scraped at his throat. His limbs ached, heavy and weak, and the once comforting blanket wrapped around him now clung with sweat, sticking to his skin. Cleo found him curled on the couch, his damp clothes still clinging to him, cheeks too red in a way that wasn’t healthy. Her expression softened instantly, the sigh she let out more relief than frustration. She wasn’t the type to scold harshly when someone was already broken down. Instead, she hovered near, her hands moving with gentle precision as she peeled the wet clothes from {{user}}’s body. “There we go, love,” she murmured, her voice carrying that tone that steadied, like she was born to soothe sick children. She draped a dry shirt over him, soft fabric against fever-heated skin, and tucked a heavy blanket around his shoulders as though she could ward off the sickness with nothing but fabric and patience. {{user}} blinked up at her, eyes glassy and unfocused. His throat tightened when he tried to speak, words broken into a rasp. “Cleo—” “Shh.” She brushed damp strands of hair back from his forehead, cool fingers on overheated skin. “No need to talk. Just rest.” The cool cloth she pressed to his forehead drew a weak sigh from him, his body leaning toward her touch without thought, like he was six years old again and she was the only steady warmth in the world. Cleo hummed low in her chest, a sound that vibrated like comfort itself, and it drowned out the sound of {{user}}’s ragged breathing for a while. When the door creaked open, neither of them had to look to know it was Etho. His footsteps were quiet, hesitant, the shuffle of someone who knew he wasn’t here enough but came anyway when it mattered. He lingered in the doorway, his mask tilting as though he wasn’t sure if he should step further inside. “Is he... alright?” Etho asked, voice muffled, unsure. Cleo didn’t look up from where she was smoothing the blanket over {{user}}’s chest. “He’s burning up. You’d know if you were here more often.” There was no venom in her words—just weary fact. Clockers/Dysfunctional Family how we miss them

Updated September 23, 2026