#sick prompts fill
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Can I please have meet cute/weird with mistaken villain! Danny (but really just a engineer and or chem student) and the one being put on investigation cause Danny is a day villain(not really)! Duke
Technically, Danny Fenton is innocent. Technically.
Duke wants to give him the benefit of the doubt, especially since he’s having so much trouble finding solid evidence that Danny is stealing from a wide variety of people, but he’s been burned before by trying to see people as better than they were. It doesn’t change the fact that Oracle’s cameras keep spotting Danny right before a building on the street is broken into and something stolen. He’s always just walking down the sidewalk; no one has spotted him entering or exiting a building, but he’s around far too often to be unconnected to these burglaries.
It doesn’t help that strange, petty crimes have been on the rise since Danny first arrived in Gotham.
So.
Danny Fenton is technically innocent.
Duke is trying to prove that he’s not.
Maybe I’m looking too closely, he thinks, going over Danny’s sparse file in the Hatch. Maybe Danny’s only one person in a bigger operation.
He could just be the lookout, the runner, the information gatherer who marks which buildings to hit. He may even be the scapegoat, the sacrificial lamb; Danny has no support in Gotham, no family, no job. There would be no one to help him if he got arrested or injured in a fight. He’s a freshman college student from Illinois who should be unprepared for life in Gotham but is somehow managing to survive like a native.
There’s a lot about Danny that doesn’t add up.
Duke has seen plenty of different people since he first went out as the Signal. He’s tried to be kind and give people the benefit of the doubt, but it leads to his loved ones being put in danger. Some people are truly evil, some working on a malicious agenda, some are misguided in their beliefs, and some are desperate people who see no other way to move forward.
He’s not sure yet which on Danny is, but he’s hoping Danny is just desperate and needs a little help to get out of a life of crime.
Which leads to the next problem: Duke has no idea what Danny is steal, or why. He hits both rich and poor folks, civilians and members of the mob, and once, notably, stole something right out of Cobblepot’s office. Allegedly, at least, since no one saw him enter or exit the office, not even the security cameras.
But added to the whispers going around about a new group in Gotham snatching people up from the streets, and some strange green substances found in warehouses often raided by police for the frequent drug labs that pop up in them…
It doesn’t look good for Danny. Especially when a few of the items he stole were found where people either vanished or where that green substance has been found.
A week of analysis in the Batcave and they still don’t know what it is.
Both Damian and Jason suspected Lazarus water, but the composition was completely different. By the look of the molecular structure, it shouldn’t have been in a liquid form at all.
All these findings lead back to one person who may have answers: Danny Fenton.
According to Tim, who’s already broken into Danny’s dorm room and checked over all the labs he has classes in, Danny has some concerning items in his possession. Various inventions and little metal knick-knacks put together by a practiced hand. He was also the one to find all the information that went into Danny’s file when it was first being made: social media posts, school report cards, news articles about his parents… everything.
And then he had an emergency mission to take with the Titans that swept him out of Gotham leaving Duke to tackle this investigation on his own.
He doesn’t have Tim’s natural skill in stalking and invading privacy. He hates breaking into people’s spaces and following them around, but needs must and he has to force himself to work through the discomfort.
It’s a good thing he did, too. Danny’s leaving his dorm after his last afternoon class, hood up to hide his face and something held in the front pocket of his hoodie. He ducks around people on the sidewalk easily, almost as if he’s gliding through the crowd instead of walking.
Duke follows from above, bending the light around him to hide him from sight.
He walks for some time, weaving through alleys and streets as if he’s been in Gotham his whole life, leaving behind the university campus to head towards Otisberg. There’s something strange about the way Danny walks, as if he’s moving around people who aren’t there, guided by something Duke can’t hear. Even using his meta abilities doesn’t do much beyond show him where Danny’s going to be in the next few seconds.
He continues to follow Danny on the rooftops, walking along the edge to keep him in sight.
Then Danny stops behind an apartment building and tilts his head back to look up at it. He tilts his head to the side, then nods and looks around the empty alley. Duke crouches down, keeping his eyes on Danny in the hopes of catching him in the act—
Danny disappears.
Duke curses under his breath and jumps down from the roof, putting more strength into his abilities as soon as his feet touch the ground.
The space where Danny was has a faint outline, oddly enough. He’s never seen that before. From it is a semi-transparent trail, smoke-like and a pale green leading into the building. It goes straight into a wall, as if Danny walked through it.
He can’t go in and search the entire apartment, but he can grapple up and take a look into the hallways to see where Danny’s heading. If he was looking up, then that’s where he should be heading.
It doesn’t take any effort to scale the building. There are ledges and windowsills and plenty of handholds for him to propel himself off of, and paired with his powers, Duke is able to find the correct floor in just under two minutes.
The green smoke slowly dances through the air of the ninth floor, on the east side of the building. If he’s been counting the rooms correctly, then the target of tonight’s burglary has to be apartment 924.
The curtains are drawn on the window he makes his way over to, and his abilities don’t show him anything helpful for the immediate future. He hates going in blind, especially to a civilian’s home, but capturing Danny takes priority. Duke picks the lock and slides the window up slowly, making sure it stays quiet, then slips into an empty bedroom.
He makes his way out into the hallway on silent feet, keeping a wary eye on the thin smoke strands of green, curling along the walls. The rest of the apartment is empty as well, pale sunlight slanting across the floor through the blinds.
Everything is still and silent. Danny’s nowhere to be found.
Did he miss Danny leaving, somehow? Was this a misdirect to get him out of the way while Danny stole from another location? Did he know Duke was following him?
But no, his ears pick up on the faint sound of clothes rustling.
Cautiously, Duke turns towards the front door, where the door to the coat closet is open. He focuses on what’s going to happen in the next twenty seconds and sees Danny panic, then disappear from sight again, but a transparent outline of his body is visible just enough to show him where he runs to. Best not to spook him; Duke pulls at the light around him and bends it to hide him from sight.
Then he moves along the wall, getting around the open door without bumping into anyone or anything.
A figure in front of the coats, shoving them to the side roughly, flickers in and out of view, almost like a reflection in water, distorted by ripples on the surface.
Danny pops back into visibility suddenly, scowling at the coats. “Are you sure it’s in here?” he asks the empty air.
There is no answer, but Danny acts like there is. He rolls his eyes and says, “It’s a favor. That I’m doing for you. I can literally stop right now and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.” He shoves aside another heavy winter coat, then sighs. “Why don’t you look for it, and then tell me where it is.”
He steps back and bumps into Duke.
Danny whirls around, eyes wide, and blast of green light has Duke crashing back into the wall, trying to blink spots out of his eyes.
“Wait!” he yells, grabbing for Danny before he can run off. “I just wanna talk!”
“Standing right behind me like a serial killer does not make you look like someone who wants to talk!” Danny yells back, slipping through his hands like mist.
“I just have a few questions!”
“Well, I have a question: why?!”
“Will you hold still, we’re being too loud!”
Danny escapes to the other side of the apartment, next to a window looking fully prepared to fling himself out of it. But he does stop yelling, so Duke is counting it as a success.
“Why is the Signal coming after me?” Danny asks, glaring at him suspiciously.
“Dude,” Duke says, “You’ve been seen outside of every single building that’s had a burglary since you first arrived in Gotham. All the Bats are after you, they just sent me because I’m the only one active during the day.”
“All the Bats?” Danny repeats, losing what little color he had in his face.
He looks legitimately scared, pale enough to be concerning, and Duke drops his guard and tries to relax the tension in the apartment. “I’m not gonna turn you into the cops or anything. I just had questions and you seem like the most likely person to have answers. That’s it.”
Danny still looks wary, ready to run at a moment’s notice, but he doesn’t leave when Duke approached casually, leaning his weight against the couch.
“So,” he begins, “What’s the deal with all the thievery? It’s rarely something super rare or expensive.”
There’s a long few minutes where Danny doesn’t answer, looking anywhere but at Duke. Then he twitches a bit and glares off to the side, and says, “I taking items that are contaminated with ectoplasm to help ghosts move through the veil and leave Gotham.”
That tells him nothing! That just gives Duke more questions! But at least it’s an answer, the first one any of them have got.
“I think you’re gonna have to explain a little more.”
“Ghosts are real, alright?”
“Yes.”
Danny stops. Squints at him. “What do you mean, ‘yes’?”
“Ghosts are real,” Duke repeats, “There are a few who help heroes or are heroes themselves, but that’s more on the magic side of things so I’m not super familiar with it.”
“Magic,” Danny says slowly. “Sure, alright. Um. Yes, ghosts are real. And there are a ton in Gotham who need help moving on, but they’re too weak to get past the veil. Something about Gotham has made the veil super strong, so they need a little boost to get through. Additional ectoplasm bonded helps with that.”
“And that’s why you’re stealing random things?”
“The ghosts I help can kind of sense ectoplasm-infused things, but they need me to grab them since they can’t hold anything without a physical body.”
Duke nods slowly. “Okay, that’s starting to answer some things. We have found those objects in the last places missing people were seen. Any idea what’s going on with that?”
“Yeah, those people were already dead.”
The way Danny says the most concerning answers as if they’re nothing is really throwing Duke off his game. He was expecting to be calm and serious to keep Danny from freaking out too much and look like a legitimate hero. But as soon as Danny started talking, all his nerves fell away and Duke is left grasping for composure.
“They were…”
“They were ghosts, yeah. And they needed to get through the veil. But they were also able to possess their own bodies and didn’t realize they were dead until I had to break the news to them, which is why it looks like living people just up and disappeared.”
“Okay… What about the green stuff we’ve been finding?”
“Ectoplasm.” Danny holds up a hand and a neon green light surrounds it. Except it looks more solid than light, as if it can be touched, and it moves on its own like fire around Danny’s fingers. “It’s what ghosts are made of.”
Oh. If Danny has ectoplasm, does that mean…
“Are you dead?” Duke asks, heart dropping.
Instead of looking upset about the question, or even disturbed by it, Danny just shrugs and waves his hand back and forth. “A little.”
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Duke says, trying to resist the urge to rub his temples. It’s a habit he didn’t mean to pick up from Batman, and it would just look silly with his helmet in the way. “You’re just doing all this to help ghosts?”
“Yeah. Basically. They asked for help man, of course I was going to help them.”
Danny’s a good person. He’s just a good person to ghosts. But this is good news either way, and he can let the others know that Danny isn’t the next Catwoman and is entirely unconnected from any drug production. Everything that made him look like a criminal is just the fault of ghosts.
“Speaking of,” Danny continues, “Looks like they found what they need, so I’m going to grab that real quick.” He pushes off of the wall and heads for the closet again, moving past Duke without any fear. Duke follows, keeping a few feet of distance between them so Danny doesn’t feel trapped, and watches as he shoves aside the coats again and pulls a shoebox out of the depths of the closet. From it, he takes a single intricate lace headband and holds it up.
It looks normal, if a little old, but when Danny sends ectoplasm through it, the lace lights up and holds the glow.
He pulls some strange contraption out of his pocket and holds it up to the headband. It makes a few beeps, then Danny mutters, “7.4 millisieverts. That’s enough to get you through the veil.”
Another concern Duke can let go of: Danny’s not creating weapons like his parents have, he’s just measuring ectoplasm through his own inventions.
Maybe he could talk to Bruce or Tim about getting Danny an internship at the R&D lab in Wayne Enterprises? That way they could keep a closer eye on him while seeing what he can create in some of the best laboratories in the country.
Well, it might take having them meet Danny before they trust him enough for that, but Duke is sure he can make it happen.
“I better go see this through, then,” Danny says, shoving the contraption back into his hoodie pocket. He gives Duke a small awkward wave, then pops out of visibility. “I’ll see you around, I guess?” he disembodied voice hedges, and Duke smiles.
“I’m sure I’ll be able to find you again.”
“Cool. I gonna go now!”
He doesn’t see any sign that Danny’s left, but he gets a feeling that he’s alone now, the apartment suddenly emptier than it was before.
As strange and concerning as Danny and all his bizarre actions were, Duke is glad he was able to finally talk to him and get some answers. Knowing how Gotham pulls people him in, it’s only a matter of time before the other Bats are exposed to Danny’s kind of strange. He’s already looking forward to it.
For now, though, he has a file to update in the Hatch; POTENTIAL THREAT will be removed and replaced with GHOST HELPER.
If anyone goes snooping into his files and gets confused, then that’s their problem. Duke’s explained enough. And Danny can take care of the rest, once they go through the effort of tracking him down. Duke's done his part, he's ready for the rest of them to step up to his level.
He can’t wait to see what other kind of trouble Danny can get it into.
#ghostlights#dc x dp#dp x dc#dcxdp#dpxdc#prompt fill#my writing#could not do a meet cute/weird in this prompt so i made it a meet disaster lol#heres danny trying to focus on his education!! and then ghosts start popping up asking for help bc gotham wont let them leave#so danny has to make a few contraptions to be able to help them (mostly ecto tracking/measuring/containing) and it looks SOOO sus#the ghosts also have a weak ecto sense which is how they find him bc hes FULL of ecto#and that means hes robbing houses during the day/late evening bc the night is for homework and stress#duke is just... trying his best lol.#sorry if the last part of this is rushed or confusing i am slightly sick and can Not focus#anyways i hope u enjoy!!#thanks for the prompt!!
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I'm not doing all the prompts for @whumptober but I'll try to fill as many as I can.. because I love whump. 🥲
#whumptober2023#no.2#delirium#final fantasy xvi#art#sickness cw#also counting this as as a prompt fill for my Firestorm bingo card for the prompt Sick Fic#firestorm bingo#firestorm#cidclive#ff16#ffxvi#arttag
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☂️A jungkook B taehyung
double-whump prompts
snz, illness, very brief instance of a shirt used as tissue lol
word count: 623
Jungkook presses himself up against the side of the house as much as he can; he’s shivering so hard he fears he might knock his head against the siding.
There’s a tiny porch around front, but getting there would mean walking back around the entire house again in the rain and he’s already so miserable he doesn’t think he can stand to do that. Instead, he just tries to squish himself tighter against the house so he’s as protected by the eaves from the rain as he can possibly be. All he has to do is wait for Taehyung to get out of the shower and then he can start knocking on the door again until Taehyung hears him.
Jungkook is so cold it almost hurts. It’s the fever, he’s sure, and the headache pounding in his skull along with the congestion that’s packing his sinuses definitely isn’t helping either. Shakily, he reaches out an arm until his fist is against the back door, and he knocks a few times as loudly as he can.
Which isn’t very loud.
He just doesn’t have the strength to knock much harder.
Fuck.
He’s so cold.
“HRSHchuh!”
A sudden sneeze throws him forward and out into the rain, and he’s drenched all over again, water pouring over his head and along the back of his neck and trickling down the back of his shirt and–
“Hh-HGSH-uh! HRSHCH! ihhh’HSHCH-uh!”
Now that he’s started sneezing, he’s certain he’s not really going to stop until he can get dried off and maybe blow his nose, so it’s not like he has any reason not to use his soaking wet t-shirt to wipe his dripping nose. Tugging the hem of the wet fabric away from his stomach, he lifts the bottom of his shirt up to his face just in time to catch another wrenching sneeze.
“uh-hhHHRSHshuh!”
“Jungkook?!”
Jungkook’s head snaps up, and water flies in all directions from his hair. Through the rain he can see Taehyung staring at him, mouth wide open.
“What are you doing out there?” Taehyung looks horrified. “And why are you taking your shirt off?”
Dropping the hem of his shirt back down, Jungkook sniffles back the urge to sneeze again and shudders violently.
“I got locked out,” he says weakly, and then sneezes immediately after.
“Why did you go out in the first place? It’s raining! You’re sick, Jungkook, you can’t just…”
Jungkook doesn’t really catch all of what Taehyung is saying as he’s ushered inside; all he knows is that it’s considerably warmer and drier inside and that there are tissues somewhere in this house, and he really, really needs a–
“HTSCH-uh! Hh-ihh! HHH! ihhh–?”
Taehyung sighs. He waits for Jungkook to sneeze, but it doesn’t come. Finally, presses his hands against Jungkook’s back, between his shoulder blades, and keeps guiding him toward the bathroom.
“C’mom,” he murmurs as Jungkook struggles, his breath hitching wildly. “Let’s get you dried off. Oh– there you go,” he says as Jungkook finally gasps his way into an explosive sneeze.
“Cold,” Jungkook whines hoarsely. His teeth are chattering now.
Fifteen minutes later, when Jungkook is bundled up in warm clothes and three blankets and tucked back into bed, Taehyung brushes the thankfully now-dry hair from his forehead and stares down at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.
“Why the hell did you go outside?” He asks, frowning when Jungkook sniffles and closes his eyes. “I saw the front door was open so I closed and locked it. I didn’t even imagine that you had gone out…I’m so sorry.”
Jungkook hums, quiet for a moment before he answers. “...Thought I saw a cat outside,” he replies sleepily, his voice nearly gone. “It was a rock.”
#sick jungkook#caretaker taehyung#bts sickfic#bts snz#sickfic#sick bts#jungkook snz#double whump#prompt fill#whump prompt
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also!! chicken nugget kim if you feel like it? 🥹 i love him
here it comes... the long-awaited chicken nugget ficlet. I got sick right before his royal asslessness and this idea wouldn't leave me alone so... get well soon everyone.
tws: sickfic (Kim has the flu)
word count: approx 700
Title: "Sick Days and Chicken Nuggets"
Kim does not handle being sick very well.
Tankhun knows this.
So when Big calls one afternoon and desperately begs for help with wrangling the youngest Theerapanyakul sibling, Khun obliges. He swans into his baby brother’s apartment carrying all the necessary supplies in two thick plastic bags. Peach, one of Big’s newer trainees, is holding a bag of frozen peas to his face on the couch.
“Well that answers my first question,” Khun sighs. He deposits both bags next to Peach and digs through the first one in search of a fever reducer. “Things must be pretty bad if he’s busting out the kung-flu.”
“Excuse me?” Peach wheezes. Khun hands him a lime flavored ice-pop and pats him on the head.
“The first thing Kim’s brain does when it registers a fever is panic. That means clearing unfamiliar people out of his space. Sorry you got punched.”
“Happens,” Peach shrugs. “At least he didn’t get anywhere important.”
Khun likes this guy’s attitude and level of understanding. He can stay.
“Wonderful! Excellent! Now you just sit here and eat that while I go handle the tiger, alright?”
“As you command, Khun Nu.”
“Wonderful,” Tankhun repeats. He tucks a packet of fever reducers, a rainbow stim cube, a strawberry ice-pop, and several band-aids into the pockets of his cardigan. “Here goes nothing.”
After two long hours of herding, wrangling, pleading, and threatening, Kim has been medicated, hydrated, showered, and tucked beneath a set of clean sheets. Tankhun and Big high-five over the success of their mission – and then Peach enters with a lunch tray as instructed.
Kim dubiously eyes the selection of udon noodles and chicken nuggets (ordered upon the specific request of Kimhan himself) and reaches a shaky hand forward to lift his bowl of soup. He gulps it down scarily fast while Khun chants, “Slow down! Don’t choke, idiot!”
Then, with tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes, he lifts one singular chicken nugget from the plate and cradles it against his chest. “What have they done to you?”
Tankhun and Big look on in silence as Kim gingerly arranges the nugget on his pillow before lying down and curling up around it.
“Uhm, N’Kim,” Khun approaches the bed. He’s shocked to find Kim staring forlornly at the lone food item. Regret fills each available space in his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“They turned him into a chicken nugget… How could they?”
“Who did they turn into nuggets, nong?”
“Porchay!” Kim sobs. He scoops it up and brings it closer. “My poor boyfriend! He’s… He’s trapped like this forever now and I’ll never see him again!”
Big leaves the room with both hands clamped firmly over his mouth. Smart move, Khun thinks. “What if we called him?”
“He can’t talk.”
“Right. Let me go call my witch friend and see if she knows the cure for nugget transformations, okay?”
“Good!”
Khun stands in the doorway, watching Kim as he listens to Chay’s phone ring.
—
Chay steps into the room and immediately feels two familiar palms land on his shoulders. “Get down and crawl to the side of the bed, okay? Don’t stand up until I give you the signal.”
“Uhm, okay?” Chay glances toward the bed, where Kim is hysterically murmuring lullabies to a semi-squashed McNugget. “Did his fever get worse?”
“Mhm.”
“Shit.” Chay shakes his head. “Who did he punch?”
“Peach.”
“The new guy?!”
“Yeah, but he was fine with it. Now! Bed!”
“Right, yeah.” Chay drops and scurries to kneel beside the bed. He stays out of view, listening with a knuckle between his teeth as Tankhun works his magic. Literally.
“Alright, Kim, are you ready to break the curse and see Porchay again?”
“Yeahhhhh,” Kim whines. “I wanna kiss him.”
“Perfect! Because when I count to three, you need to smooch that chicken nugget and break the curse.”
“I can do that.”
“I know you can. Ready?” Kim’s nod shuffles against the pillow and Chay bites back an even larger grin. “One. Two. Three!”
Kim closes his eyes to kiss the nugget and Khun reaches forward, yanking it from his grasp. At the same time, Chay pops up from beside the bed and Kim’s eyes shoot open. Their gazes meet and the feverish singer shouts, “SUNSHINE! IT WORKED!”
“Of course it worked,” Chay slides into bed next to Kim and lets the older man wrap around his legs like a koala. He runs his fingers through his boyfriend’s damp hair, pulling the tiny knots free and making Kim purr deep in his chest, catlike in his contentment. “You always come to my rescue, babe.”
“Hmm, always,” Kim mumbles. He’s nearly asleep already.
“Thank you, P’Khun,” Chay smiles up at his almost-brother-in-law. “I probably should have called in at school today, anyway. He needs me.”
“You have your own life,” Khun huffs in his favorite dramatic way. “He can take care of himself once and awhile.”
“Sure he can,” Chay acknowledges. “But I prefer doing it myself.”
“Shut up! You two are so adorable it makes me… Ugh, nevermind.”
Chay giggles at Khun’s back as he breezes from the room.
“So adorable it makes you sick?”
“Shut up!”
#kimchay ficlet#if you see any spelling errors no you didn't#i wrote this on like 3 medications i'm so goofy rn#chicken nugget ficlet#kimchay#sickfic#sick kim#tankhun theerapanyakul#tankhun appreciation#big lives fuck you#kimchay prompt fill#kimchay crack#kimchay crackfic#sickfic AND crackfic? more likely than you think
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Just read your reply to an ask about a fix of matty singing them to sleep and the suggestion/idea of fictional Matty singing fictional George or vice versa to sleep has me wanting to eat my hand and sob (in a good way) 😭
The best way to deal with your self imposed stress of not finishing a fic by your self dictated deadline is obviously to work on a different one 😂 I felt really bad that I wasn't able to fill that one prompt request for that anon looking for a matty x reader blurb where he sung the reader to sleep (I don't see myself ever writing x reader fic i'm sorry!! there are so many wonderful talented people who do though! that's just not my writing niche unfortunately) ... but like was totally down to write one of him singing fictional!George to sleep, and then I saw that YOU lovely anon had sent this in in response to that ask, so obviously I had to jump it to the top of my massive list of prompt fill requests that I really do promise I will finish in 2024 lol
So, alas, here it is, Fictional!Matty sining Fictional!George to sleep. I hope you like it, if not let me know and I will attempt a take two! Thank you so much for sending this in though, and for reading, and being so lovely and supportive! I hope you have a very happy new year and a great rest of your week!
❤️Ally
Singing to sleep
George was sick, and George never got sick. Matty was at his wits end, he was the one with the shit immune system. He was the one who didn’t take care of himself and allowed his body to get run down, seeming to constantly be coming down with a perpetual case of the sniffles. George did yoga. George remembered to eat, and drank water, and got the recommended eight hours of sleep each night. He wasn’t supposed to be congested and running a fever, a trail of used tissues laid out like bread crumbs as if he would lose his way back to the bedroom without them.
George wasn’t supposed to be arguing with Matty that he wasn’t sick when he clearly was. Shaking his head, his voice rough and nasally, insisting that he was fine even as he had to halt his argument every few minutes to cough. George was not supposed to be sick, and with a sinking realization, Matty was learning that George was an even worse patient than he was.
“Please,” Matty begged, he knew he looked ridiculous wearing the frilly apron his Mum had gotten him as a joke when they had bought the new house and Matty had shown her the high end kitchen as if he was going to actually use it. The joke was on her, he was wearing the apron and currently trying to use the kitchen. “Please just go lay back down.”
“I’m fine,” George rasped again before breaking off into another coughing fit, his arms wrapped around himself as he shivered. Matty glanced at the clock on the stove, it was still too soon for him to take another dose of paracetamol.
“You are not fine!” Matty snapped, turning away from the stove and the soup that he hoped was simmering and not boiling, he wasn’t entirely sure of the difference. He waved his wooden spoon at George for dramatic effect. “You need to go lay down and get some fucking rest so you can get better!”
George opened his mouth and Matty waved the spoon more aggressively, flicking his wrist at George. “No, no arguments, upstairs, now please, let’s go.” Matty said, nudging George’s shoulder so that he could guide him towards the staircase.
George sighed, breaking off into another coughing fit, his shoulders shaking before doing as Matty said. He padded barefoot towards the stairs, Matty hot on his heels to make sure he actually got into bed instead of trying to snag his work laptop out of the office. The soup would be okay for a few minutes without him, Matty thought as they climbed the stairs. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be watching for anyway, or what he was even supposed to do if it did do something.
Realizing he was still holding the spoon, Matty sheepishly sat it down on the dresser, brushing past George to fluff up his pillows and blankets.
“Get in the bed,” he said, holding his arms out as if he was a briefcase girl on a game show.
“You trying to take advantage of me?” George rasped, batting his eyelashes teasingly, the effect was lost though by the glassy sheen of his eyes and his dry red nose.
“Always,” Matty deadpanned and George sighed, climbing back into bed and allowing Matty to rearrange the blankets around him while he pouted like a child.
“Now get some rest,” Matty said, leaning down one last time to press a kiss to George’s forehead, frowning when he realized just how hot it was. He turned away, planning on heading into the bathroom to get George a damp wash rag to try and cool him down some before returning to his soup when George caught his wrist.
“Wait,” said George looking up at Matty, looking extra pathetic with his pale skin, red nose and shiny eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” Matty assured him, his heart squeezing. “I’m just going to get you a cold rag.”
“I’m fine,” George said again, his voice convincing absolutely no one. “But will you,” George flushed, and Matty wasn’t sure if it was from fever or embarrassment. George swallowed hard, his sore throat bobbing painfully. “Will you sing to me?”
Matty blinked, in confusion, not expecting the request. “What?” he asked dumbly and George’s blush deepened, embarrassment it is then, Matty thought fondly, his heart flipping at the request.
“Will you sing me something?” George asked again, his eyes wide and earnest. “Please.”
Matty exhaled slowly, he wanted to get George a cold wash rag for his forehead, and he needed to go check on his soup. But who was he to refuse George a song when he was poorly.
“Yeah,” said Matty softly, feeling like his insides had turned to goo with just how much he loved George. “Yeah, I can sing you something.”
His Gibson Hummingbird was leaning against a decorative chair where he had left it two days prior, and he winced, knowing he should have put it away properly but thankful for his laziness as he scooped it up, feeling silly as he quickly tuned it and sat down on the edge of the bed.
He played the opening chord and George smiled, instantly recognizing the song.
Tell me what you thought about
When you were gone and so alone
The worst is over
You can have the best of me
We got older but we're still young
We never grew out of this feeling that we won't give up
George was asleep, snoring softly, before Matty even finished the song.
#allylikethecat#ask ally#anon ask#fanfiction#keep it kind#matty fic#gatty#prompt fill#prompt fills#OG requests#if anyone else has any prompt requests from a list or their own brains send them my way!#also i am still working on the sick fic prompts dont worry#they're just ending up a little longer and will probably end up on AO3
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Okay! I got something!
Peter comes down with a small cold and Tony is way too overprotective of him. He’s the parent that’s like: “Bed, now. No getting up. You need to rest 24/7.” And Peter is a little annoyed because he’s bored and wants to at least lay on the couch and watch tv. At the same time though, he loves how protective his mentor/dad is of him.
He just wishes Tony could be protective without forcing him on bed rest.
This mini is a combination of two prompts! I just thought they would work really well together and, oh boy, they sure did! I didn't want to make Tony too overbearing but I think I hit all the right notes and what we ended up with is a very soft sickfic. 🥰
Here it is at 966 words!
Rest Assured
“Good afternoon, Mr. Parker,” FRIDAY said, as Peter stepped into the elevator. “The boss is in the penthouse. Is that where you would like to go?”
“Sure. Thanks FRI,” Peter replied, followed by a long sniff. His nose had been running all day, and he’d long since run out of tissues. That had left him sniffling for the majority of his trip to the tower.
“Hey, Kiddo!” Tony greeted as Peter arrived. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
“Sure, Mr. Stark,” he said while quickly scanning the room for a box of tissues. He didn’t see one. “I’ll be there in just a second,” he said as he stepped into the hall bathroom to blow his nose. He washed his hands immediately after. Then on a whim, stuffed another wad of toilet paper into his pocket before exiting.
“What’s up?” he asked while looking over Tony’s shoulder. There was a small hologram projecting from a tablet. It looked like an aircraft.
Tony opened his mouth to answer but before he could, Peter sneezed three times, followed by several sniffs. “Are you sick?” he asked.
“Not really,” Peter said with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s just a cold.”
“You should be resting,” Tony replied as if Peter hadn’t said anything at all.
Peter’s eyes widened in mild surprise. “What are you talking about?” he questioned. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re sick,” Tony countered. “And sick people are supposed to rest.”
Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head. He was glad Tony cared enough to be concerned. Even if it was a little disproportionate to the situation. “I think I’ll be okay,” he promised. “What did you want to show me?”
“Nope. That can wait. You shouldn’t be up,” Tony replied without missing a beat. Afterward, he paused, one eyebrow raised. “Does May know you’re sick?”
“I’m barely sick and yes, she knows. She gave me a little packet of tissues this morning and everything.” He said, then sneezed again. That was followed by a grunt of frustration as he wiped his nose. It was starting to get sore.
In an instant, Tony hopped off the couch and closed the tablet. “That’s it,” he clipped. “You’re laying down. I’ll go grab you a pillow and a banket.” After watching Peter wipe his nose with toilet paper he shook his head. “And some actual tissues. I think I have some in the hall closet. Take off your shoes, get comfortable, I’ll be right back.”
“Mr. Stark, I don’t-” Peter began, but Tony was already out of sight. Rather than complete his thought, he sighed. Next he kicked his shoes off and sat down as instructed.
Tony returned moments later with half the linen closet in his arms. He dropped two pillows on the corner of the couch said, “Lay down.”
Unwilling to argue, Peter huffed and put his head on the pillows. He’d barely stretched out before Tony was spreading mutiple blankets over his body. “Are you tucking me in, right now?” he asked, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
“Maybe,” Tony quipped. “You got a problem with that, Kiddo?”
Peter laughed as he shook his head and snuggles into the covers. He would never admit it, but he was tired. Although it was easy enough to blame that on a long day at school.
“Okay,” Tony said as he smoothed out the outermost blanket.. “I’m going to grab you some water and cold medicine. Maybe some hot tea. Do you like tea? I’m getting you some tea,”
Amused, Peter asked, “You know this is all very unnecessary, right?”
Tony scoffed and gently knuckled Peter on the side of his head. “Just shut up and let me take care of you, you little punk.”
Before long, there was a plethora of cold supplies strewn across the coffee table. Peter sat up to swallow the tablets and sip at the tea. It was better than he expected. The copious amount of honey was nice, and the steam did wonders for his clogged sinuses.
“Can I see what you were working now?” he asked, once he set his empty mug side.
Tony glanced up from where he’d reengaged with the table and narrowed his eyes. “No. You’re resting,” he said with finality.
“I can rest and look at your schematics,” Peter huffed. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Tony hummed and reached over to place his hand over Peter’s face. “Close your eyes,” he said. “You need a nap.”
That lasted for all of two minutes, then Peter sat up. “This is boring,” he said, emphisized by a dramatic sigh.
“It’s supposed to be boring. You’re sick,” Tony replied without ever looking up form his work. “Go to sleep.”
“It’s just a cold, Mr. Stark,” laughed, then sniffed. “I don’t even have a fever.”
“That doesn’t make you any less sick,” Tony easily replied.
“Fine, whatever,” Peter grumbled. Although, he was fully smiling as he snuggled down into the blankets. Five minutes later, he yawned and decided the medicine must have started working because he could breathe through his nose again.
He sighed deeply and allowed his body to relax. Then just as he was right on the verge of sleep, he felt a hand brush through his bangs. “That’s better,” he heard Tony whispered just before a kiss was dropped onto his forehead. That was new, and it caused him to crack one eye open.
“Did you jus’ kiss me?” he sleepily mumbled.
Tony froze, clearly having not expected to get caught. Although he managed to recover quickly. “I sure did,” he confidently replied, then gave Peter’s head a gentle shove into the pillows. “Now deal with it. Go to sleep, Kid.”
Peter giggle languidly and closed his eyes before mumbling, “Love you too, Mr. Stark.”
#happyaspie mini fic#prompt fill#sickfic#sick peter parker#cold#Just a lil cold#peter parker#tony stark#spider-man#iron man#irondad and spiderson#marvel#irondad#fic under 1k
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Day 11: Fever (Warriors & Time)
Ao3 link
Cw for illness
———————-
It’s been a while since he’s come down with something.
Honestly, Time can’t remember when he last did. He just doesn’t get sick as much as he used to. Apparently, traveling through time has done wonders for his fairy-boy immune system. At least, that’s the positive way of looking at it.
But it’s growing a bit difficult to remain positive, even more so to stay alert. With his head pounding, and his throat burning like he swallowed fire, and his surroundings tipping dizzily, just putting one foot in front of the other is nearly impossible. More than once he has to shake himself out of a daze to answer a question or regain his sense of direction, ensuring he isn’t leading the heroes blindly into danger.
Halfway through the day, the looks begin. He can feel them, even through the exhaustion dragging at his mind–the sideways glances between Twilight and Warriors; the furtive, questioning looks from Wind, Wild, and Hyrule. Even Legend quirks an eyebrow when Time replies to something Wind said in a less-than-coherent way.
“You okay, old man?” Twilight asks, after yet another instance where Time tries and fails to accurately articulate his intended meaning.
He’s more than happy to converse with his fellow heroes, but why they have to choose to talk to him more frequently today of all days is beyond him.
“I’m alright, pup,” he lies and keeps walking…if only to keep from collapsing.
From the look on Twilight’s face, he doesn’t buy it for one second. His attempts at cloaking his illness are failing miserably, Time knows, but at this point, he’s much too tired to care. Getting through the day is his sole priority now, preferably with himself and the others alive. That’s more than enough in and of itself.
Monsters attack around four, a small group that they dispose of with relative ease. And though he doesn’t have to fight overly much, the little he does leaves him winded and dizzy. By the time Warriors suggest they set up camp for the night, he’s stumbling.
Every step feels like he’s dragging himself through mud, every thought is fuzzy and incomprehensible. His body is stiff and uncooperative, aching joints reminding him of his age, and the slight shivers that have begun to run through it do little to help matters. Neither does the headache-turned-migraine pulsing behind his eyes, or the sickening burn in his throat.
Even Wild’s supper of meat skewers makes his stomach turn. And after a valiant attempt to eat that nearly results in disaster, Time sets down his plate, and announces that he’s going to turn in early.
Instantly, Twilight’s eyes narrow.
“But the fun’s just getting started,” Hyrule says. “Wild was gonna show us how to shield surf!”
“Don’t tell me that’s too strenuous for you, old man,” Legend smirks.
Time offers them all a small smile. “It’s been a long day.” He rises, steadying himself on a nearby tree trunk. “You boys have fun…and please don’t break anything.”
Legend snickers. “Sorry but the Champion’s involved. Something’s definitely gonna get broken.”
Time has to admit that he has a point.
“Well,” he says, mildly, “wake me up when it happens.”
He unrolls his bed mat, lays down, and is asleep seconds later.
Despite his exhaustion, he sleeps fitfully. Dreams tumble one upon another, strange and nauseating, tangling past and present, reality and fiction. And through them all, his pain features prominently. His mind has deigned it necessary to remind him of its existence, apparently, though he can’t for the life of him figure out why. It’s more than a little noticeable on its own.
He tosses and turns, wincing as every breath, every swallow ignites the fire in his lungs and throat. The night air only exacerbates it. More than once he startles awake in the throes of a coughing fit.
When the shivering becomes so bad his teeth begin to chatter, and he realizes getting any sleep tonight is hopeless.
Time pushes himself upright, then struggles to his feet, pausing a moment to let the world tip back into its rightful place. Stepping carefully over the slumbering heroes, he heads toward the forest. At the very least, maybe a walk will clear his head. And though he’s likely spread the virus all over the camp by now, maybe, just maybe, removing himself from the equation will help keep more people from becoming ill.
He doesn’t even make it to the first line of trees, however, before Warriors’ voice reaches him.
“Sprite? What’re you doing?”
Time freezes, feeling a bit like a child caught in an act of mischief, and looks back over his shoulder just in time to see the captain rise from his place keeping watch. He crosses the clearing to him, brows drawn in concerned confusion.
“You’re pale,” he says, regarding Time with a scrutinizing gaze. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The lie is a bit harder to get out this time, what with the fact that he can hardly speak. “Just felt like taking a walk.”
Warriors lets his gaze drift over him, the worry in his eyes growing stronger by the moment.
“You felt like taking a walk…in the middle of the night.” He shakes his head. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you can’t lie to me, Sprite. Besides, you look sick as a dog.”
A small smile lifts his lips, which quickly dissolves into a grimace as another particularly violent shiver rips through him. “I thought your dog jokes were re-reserved for Twilight.”
“Nah, they’re multipurpose. Now, come on, back to bed with you.” Warriors puts a hand on his shoulder, keeping his grip firm even when Time tries to pull away.
“Captain–”
“No, excuses, Sprite,” he says, leading Time back towards his abandoned bed mat. The ground dips as he walks, and it’s only with Warriors’ support that Time remains upright. “You need to rest. And if I don’t drag you back, someone else will.”
Time half-sits, half-collapses back onto the mat, feeling even more exhausted than before.
“Don’t want you boys to get sick too,” he manages.
Warriors gives him a small, knowing smile. “We’ve been with you all day, Sprite. If we’re gonna get your germs, it’s already happened. Running away now isn’t gonna help anyone.”
He hands Time a flask of water, then scoots over to sit beside him as he drinks it. And he doesn’t even really mean to, but somewhere between downing the rest of the water and handing the flask back, Time ends up slumped against the captain’s shoulder, his scarf draped over his shoulders like a blanket.
For a moment, fear spikes within him, ingrained by the war, driven by the terrible knowledge that he’s likely gotten everyone here ill, and lead them into a whole other kind of danger. But then, exhaustion wins out, and he lets himself drift, safe beside his brother.
#febuwhump2023#febuwhumpday11#sick character#fever#trin writes#linkeduniverse#lu time#lu warriors#whew didn’t think I’d actually be able to fill today’s prompt#I’m so tired and writer brain is not cooperating
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Resting your head on your partners lap.
For the physical intimacy prompts, if you want.
Buck couldn’t help but wince at the sound of Eddie throwing his guts up for the fifth time in as many minutes. He was a seasoned firefighter, sure, but no one liked the sound of throw up. Right? It was a universal fact: nobody liked to sit and listen to someone throw up, but you did it anyway, because that was love. Buck knew that much.
Knocking gently on the closed bathroom door, Buck called out. “Eddie? Baby? Are you okay?”
Eddie, bless him, did his best not to sound completely pitiful as he replied. “I’m fine!” he said, the enthusiasm in his voice strained.
“You don’t sound fine,” Buck countered.
“No, I’m really so fine,” Eddie replied, taking a brief pause to throw up again. “Everything is just – dandy.”
“Eddie.”
Eddie huffed out an unrecognisable noise, and there was quiet for a few minutes as the toilet flushed, and Eddie turned the tap on. Tiredly, he eased open the bathroom door, giving Buck a pitiful look. “Everything is not dandy,” he admitted forlornly. “I think I have food poisoning.”
Buck grimaced. Eddie was the medic in their relationship, so he trusted the diagnosis – but he had already come to that conclusion himself. Eddie had eaten some dodgy looking seafood for his lunch, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that was why he was vomiting his insides out now, an hour before their dinner reservation.
“I figured,” he gave Eddie a sympathetic look.
Eddie sighed, flopping ungainly onto the floor where Buck was sitting, resting his head in Buck’s lap. There were better places to sit in their hotel room, Buck knew, but he was never going to say no to an armful of Eddie: even if they were sitting in a heap on the floor. “I washed my mouth out,” he reassured, and Buck couldn’t help but smile: they were long past the point of being offended by each other’s bodily functions.
“I don’t care,” Buck reassured, brushing a hand through Eddie’s hair, the brown strands damp with sweat. He didn’t have a fever, Buck noted, reassuring himself that it couldn’t be anything more than food poisoning, or a twenty-four-hour bug.
“I care,” Eddie grumbled. “I cannot fucking believe I have gotten food poisoning on our honeymoon.”
Buck grinned, looking at his shiny new husband of exactly ten days. Eddie looked a little pale, despite the tan he’d developed on the first six days of their trip. Sun, sand, sea, and a whole lot of quality time with Eddie had been good for the soul. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does!” Eddie huffed, curling closer to Buck. “It’s our honeymoon, Buck.”
Buck shrugged. “There’ll be other trips.”
“Not our honeymoon, though. Our fancy, all-inclusive, nice hotel honeymoon.”
They’d saved up for a while, wanting to really treat themselves – but Buck was pretty sure he’d have enjoyed a honeymoon spent camping just as much. The point, he supposed, was getting to spend one-on-one time with the love of his life.
“We can take a honeymoon every year, if you want,” Buck suggested.
“Every year?” Eddie sounded sceptical.
“Mm,” Buck hummed. “There aren’t any rules that say we can’t, is there? If we want to take a honeymoon every year – we can take a honeymoon every year.”
“Every year?” Eddie sounded placated, a little less annoyed that on the second-to-last night of their honeymoon he’d gone down with a case of food poisoning. When the memory was a little less fresh, Buck would absolutely tease him for trusting street seafood, but Buck held back for now. He liked to wind Eddie up, but he wasn’t unkind. Most of the time, at least.
“Every year,” Buck promised. “A whole week – you and me, anywhere you want to go.”
“That sounds nice,” Eddie hummed, suddenly going pale. “Oh, god – Buck, I think I’m going to be sick again, oh.”
Buck tried his best not to grimace as he ended up with a lapful of vomit. That was – marriage, he supposed? In sickness and in health, and all that.
“Sorry,” Eddie mumbled.
“I am – going to call down to reception and ask for a bucket,” Buck said. “And then I’m going to burn these pants.”
#silly sick fic for u#911 fox#evan buckley#eddie diaz#buddie#in which i ramble#in which lorna writes fic#vomiting mention#prompt fill
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92) After a fever dream wakes you up, I roll over and hold you close, your head underneath my chin.
With a Sick Theo and Keeho or Intak taking care of him?
Thanks so much for the request!! I got the idea and it kinda took off on it's own! What could have easily been one scene turned into a whole drabble! I hope you enjoy this sick!Theo content! I hope this satisfies your cravings!
Pairing: Keeho X Theo - platonic intentions, but open interpretation. Briefly ft. Intak.
Words: 1429
Warnings: Fever || Sick Member || Slight Angst || Nongraphic Fever Dream
Taeyang was thrilled to finally be on the way home. What started as just some sniffles morphed into a pounding headache, which developed into whole body aches, and then the body aches became an unshakable chill, and by that point, he'd come to the conclusion he's gotten sick.
His members had also figured it out rather quickly. He had no way of hiding it. His usually balanced complexion was pale, with feverish, sweaty blotches of red. And his striking eyes were glossed over with an obvious haze. Keeho's hand on the eldest's forehead only confirmed what they'd all suspected.
"Why didn't you say you were sick?" Keeho questions as he guides Taeyang into his room. He knows that as the leader, he has to reprimand such reckless behavior. But he wants to do it away from the younger members, to spare his hyung's dignity.
"I didn't know, I thought it was just a small cold." He admitted. "I didn't feel really bad until a few hours ago."
"Then you should have told me a few hours ago." Keeho retorts without missing a beat, "I don't care if we're in the middle of something, or if we have more schedules to get through. If you feel sick, you tell me. Nothing is worth risking your health."
Taeyang nods his head as he sits down on the edge of his bed. As belittling as it is, he knows Keeho is right. And he appreciates having a leader who will always put them first, especially when they struggle to do it themselves.
"Think you can go take a shower? It'll help. I'll get you some dinner and meds for when you get out." Keeho doesn't wait for a response before he's out the door, but Taeyang nods his head anyway, gathering his pajamas and staggering to the bathroom.
Intak is sitting beside the bathroom door, playing a game on his phone. When Taeyang sends him a questioning look, the rapper is quick to reply, "Keeho-hyung told me to sit here." He says defensively, waving his hands in innocence. "He doesn't want you to pass out in the shower or anything."
Taeyang doesn't have the mental capacity to ask any more questions, so he gives Intak a quick nod before stepping into the bathroom and closing the door. He doesn't lock it.
Intak is still seated there when he comes out, dressed in his loosest pajamas and hair still dripping wet. "Hyung," the rapper pockets his phone and jumps to stand across from him. "You need to dry your hair. You're already sick, don't want to make it worse."
"Tired." Taeyang pouts. The cool water of the shower took the last remaining ounce of his energy. He just wants to crawl into bed.
Intak chuckles, resting a hand on his hyungs shoulder. "C'mon. I'll do it for you." He guides the vocalist back into the bathroom and sits him on the closed toilet seat. "I'll be gentle, okay." There's a warmth in Intak's smile that allows Taeyang to relinquish any sense of control. He just lets Intak take over. And it's so comfortable. The soft way he towel dries the dripping ends, and the way his long fingers card through as he blows each strand dry. Taeyang nearly falls asleep sitting down.
It's Keeho's voice that breaks through the soft hum of the blow dryer. "There you are," he crouches down to Taeyang's eye level. "Ready for bed?"
Taeyang nods. The blow dryer turns off, and Intak cards through his now dry hair one last time before he creeps out of the bathroom. But not without wishing his hyung good health first.
"Let's get you to your room," Keeho holds a hand out for Taeyang. The older takes it, but makes no effort to list himself up. So the leader puts his other hand behind Taeyang's back and helps him to stand. Thankfully, Taeyang has enough lingering energy to shuffle back to his room.
The bedding is already turned down. And there's a tray of food sitting beside his bed, which is a charming sentiment because Keeho never allows food in the bedrooms. Taeyang drops himself into the bed and quickly pulls the covers over himself. "Keeho, I really don't feel good."
"I know, hyung. You'll feel better after some sleep." The leader sits on the edge of the bed. "I know you're tired, but you need to eat first."
Taeyang forces himself to eat a few bites just so he can satisfy the leader. He also begrudgingly swallows the fever reducers that Keeho demands he take, along with a handful of other vitamins. Once Taeyang sticks out his tongue as proof that he swallowed them all, Keeho stands off the bed. "Okay, you've showered, eaten, and taken meds." He lets out a relieved breath, "I think you're all ready for bed then."
Keeho keeps talking while he scurries across the room, but Taeyang isn't really listening. He's been teetering the edge of sleep for far too long now. And he's ready for his exhaustion to swallow him whole. "I've told the maknaes to sleep on my room tonight, so you can have the room to yourself." Taeyang's eyes widen at that, his heart races in his chest.
He doesn't want to be alone.
As Keeho arranges the items on the bedside table, Taeyang reaches out to grab the leader's wrist. The sudden contact startles Keeho, who flinches but doesn't immediately pull away. "What's the matter? Is something wrong?" He's immediately on high alert. Taeyang's not exactly the clingy type.
The eldest's heart is pounding in his chest. His lip is quivering and his thoughts are racing. He's never felt shy around Keeho before, especially when it comes to asking for attention. But something about the situation makes him feel extra vulnerable. He looks up at the leader with big, watery, fever-ridden eyes. "Can you stay with me?" He finally asks.
Keeho doesn't tease or joke. He takes Taeyang's hand in his own and gives him a soft smile, "Of course, hyung." He replies, "Scoot over and make some room." Which Taeyang does quickly despite the aching in his body.
Once Keeho settles in, Taeyang is quick to latch himself onto the leader. For warmth of course. "I'm so tired." The elder member speaks into the fabric of Keeho's shirt.
"Then sleep," Keeho whispers, running his palm up and down Teayang's back. "I'll be right here."
It's not long until the two of them are fast asleep under the covers.
Keeho's never realized how much Taeyang moves in his sleep. One minute, all four of his limbs are in some way intertwined with his own. The next, Taeyang is pressed up against the wall. The blankets are constantly shifting between being pulled up and being kicked down to the bottom of the bed. It's an uncomfortable nights sleep, but Keeho finds a way to sleep through it all.
Around 2 AM, Taeyang's tossing and turning is accompanied by whimpers and gasps. He mutters the names of his members and flails his limbs around. One final gasp has the older shooting up in the bed, heart racing, tear tracks running down his cheeks. As he gasps for air, he looks to Keeho, who is still sleeping beside him. His back is turned facing the door, seemingly on the edge of the mattress, allowing Taeyang to take up as much space as he needs.
The sight of his sleeping leader brings him instant comfort. He takes a deep breath before he lays back down, pulling the covers back up to his neck. He's still tired but can't bring himself to sleep, afraid he might have another horribly graphic fever dream. So he stares at the back of Keeho's head, trying to convince himself that he's in a safe place.
Keeho can feel every movement that Taeyang makes. He can hear Taeyang sniffling as he tries to subdue the sadness presumably brought on by whatever nightmare startles him awake. In one swift motion, Keeho turns over and wraps an arm around the older's torso, pulling him close. Taeyang's face fits right into the crook of Keeho's neck. The feverishly warm skin presses against Keeho's chin. He can feel the cold remnants of tears on his neck.
"It was just a bad dream, hyung. Go back to sleep," Keeho slurs when he feels the tickle of Taeyang's eyelashes on his neck as he blinks.
The leader pulls Taeyang impossibly closer and waits until he feels the sick man's eyes flutter closed. There's only sweet dreams after that.
#p1harmony#piwon sickfic#p1h sickfic#p1h canonverse#sick!Theo#sick!Taeyang#caretaker!Keeho#minor Intak#tw fever#tw fever dream#Theo x Keeho#aki writes#aki sickfic#aki requests#aki drabbles#aki prompt fill
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“You’re such a bitch.” Would love it if you could make it work in the Cheating AU (cosss I'm obsesssssedd with it).
Ideally Anakin saying it to Obi-Wan, but doesn'tneed to be, whatever inspires you 💙.
hey hi hello!!! ok so this is set in the cheating au (gffa au where obi-wan and anakin cheat on their partners---satine, who knows and doesn't care and padmé who doesn't know and will definitely care---to be with one another), and i'd go into detail about the timeline more, but actually I think the characters pretty much say everything you need to know. In my mind this is about three months before Anakin gets hurt and obi-wan makes him choose between his wife and him.
(2k) (cw: infidelity, jealousy, asshole behavior from obikin)
The twi’lek waitress keeps making eyes at Obi-Wan and the man is letting her. His wife is right there, next to him.
Anakin is right across from him while he gently touches the server’s wrist, compliments the length and coloring of her lekku, refers to her by her name that he remembers—Niv’era—and laughs over jokes she hasn’t even really said.
It’s all very disgusting, and it’s even worse when Anakin catches Satine’s eye from across the table. She has the most annoying knowing look, and Anakin blanches beneath it. He hates that for a second, they’re in the same sort of twisted club. In love with a man who is an incorrigible flirt.
Well, Satine has said many times she feels no romantic inclination towards her husband. Anakin just can’t believe that’s true.
It’s Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan, who has taken a singular bite out of his correllian beef tenderloin and has stopped Niv’era on her way past the table to praise her for the suggestion, as if she personally cooked it herself. She probably can’t even cook. She looks younger than Anakin’s children, and they’re three.
Padmé shifts next to him, setting her fork down and placing her hand over his own fisted hand, as if trying to soothe him.
The movement catches Obi-Wan’s eye, and he pauses for a second before he continues, even louder and more flirtatious than before, running a hand through his hair with a roguish grin as the star-struck child of a server tells him about the last time she visited Stewjon and what she did there with her family.
Out of some unpleasant and nameless emotion, Anakin flips his hand over and intertwines his fingers with his wife. He can feel her wedding band against his knuckle. Anakin had forgotten to wear his ring. He usually does these days when he knows he’ll see Obi-Wan.
“Your anniversary is coming up, no?” Satine asks. Anakin glares at her, but she simply smiles in return. Bitch.
“In two weeks,” Padmé says, taking a tiny sip of her plum wine. Obi-Wan’s whiskey is untouched on the table before him. He’s finally dismissed the waitress and has turned his attention fully back to them.
Anakin fights a sneer and wonders if in a few nights, Obi-Wan will come back alone to this restaurant, ask the girl for a tour of the place, push her into a closet and coax her into breaking her marriage vows for the chance to lick the taste of whiskey out of his mouth. She probably wouldn’t say no.
Anakin hadn’t.
“And how many years will that be?” Satine asks, nibbling at the edge of a crust of bread. “Five? No. Six?”
“Six,” Padmé agrees. “We married very young.”
Anakin had married very young. Padmé had married at a respectable age.
“Six years, wow,” the blonde woman says with a tiny shake of her head. She raises her wine glass. “Here’s to six years of love and commitment. May there be many more.”
Padmé laughs and raises her own glass, tilting her head up to look at Anakin. She’s probably expecting a kiss from her husband. Anakin is hardly her husband anymore, and he is absolutely not the man she married.
Obi-Wan raises his own glass and tossses the entirety of the contents back in one go. “You’re such a bitch,” he tells Satine, pushing away from the table. “Excuse me.”
Padmé’s hand has fluttered to her mouth in shock at the words, eyes wide and quickly turning angry for the sake of her friend. “That was absolutely out of line, I’m sorry, Satine.”
“Oh, it’s alright,” Satine looks amused more than anything. “We’re all tense over the elections.”
“There’s no need for that level of disrespect though,” Padmé declares. Anakin knows he should say something, fall in line with his wife and agree. But Padmé doesn’t have all the information. Satine was being a bitch, and she’s the only one at the table who doesn’t know it or understand why.
“I know you two have an…unconventional marriage—” it’s no secret among friends that the Kenobi-Kryzes have an open marriage, something Padmé has never been able to fully understand— “but if my husband talked to me like that in a serious manner, I would divorce him on the spot.”
She looks at him and he nods because he’s supposed to nod. He’s supposed to find the threat slightly funny, and agree that he would never do something so uncouth like that.
But all he can think is, Promise?
“I’m going to go check on him,” he says, standing and putting his napkin on the table. He can’t spot the waitress either and now he’s thinking the worst. His chest is tight. If he finds Obi-Wan and he’s kissing someone else, Anakin doesn’t know what he’ll do.
It feels like it would be a betrayal. Of them. Their relationship.
But aren’t they both betrayers already? Obi-Wan’s marriage wasn’t open until three years ago, when Satine had declared to the pair of them that she wanted to have just as much liberty to take other partners as Obi-Wan apparently thought he had. And, she’d said, having an open marriage meant that she wouldn’t have to hide it. Unlike Obi-Wan and Anakin.
And Anakin and Padmé’s marriage….It was not always what it is now. The guilt should eat him alive and sometimes when he’s in the fresher, washing off the scent of Obi-Wan before his wife comes home, it does.
Most of the time though, it’s not there anymore at all. It’s been four years, sneaking around with Obi-Wan. He’s addicted.
Addicts can’t let guilt consume them. That’s what the addiction is for.
Padmé has slid over to his chair to grasp at Satine’s hand. She’ll probably have a long fiery speech prepared for Obi-Wan when he gets back. Suddenly Anakin doesn’t want to hear it.
For a brief second, he wishes he could just find Obi-Wan and leave the restaurant all together. Leave the planet. Run off into the stars.
He looks at the back of his wife’s head. She’d spent an hour styling her hair in the fresher mirror before coming out tonight. He’d been asked to hold certain pieces in place as she pinned them. In the early days of their marriage, which was also the early days of their relationship, he’d been humbled and awed to be invited into such a precious domestic scene. Tonight, he’d only felt vaguely irritated that she cared so much and that her caring had made them late, which meant minutes where Obi-Wan and Satine were alone at a restaurant like they’ve been for years before.
Anakin stares at the back of her head and feels the words rise into his mouth. You’re such a bitch, he imagines telling her. He wants to tell her.
But more than that, he wants the words to be true, and he knows they are not. He’d married a kindhearted woman with a soul just as beautiful as she is. And yet.
And yet.
Obi-Wan is in the restaurant’s fresher. It’s deserted otherwise, which is good because Anakin is fuming and he’s feeling reckless and as soon as Obi-Wan turns to look at him, he pushes him up against the edge of the sink.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” he snarls and Obi-Wan’s hands immediately come up to fist into Anakin’s dress tunics, mess them up. Pull him closer. It’s always about closeness with Obi-Wan.
“I’m an asshole? What was I supposed to do, listen to your wife talk about your fucking facade of a marriage until the desserts course?” Obi-Wan spits right back. “You’re a fucking—”
Anakin kisses him to shut him up. It’s angry and too much so fast, too much teeth and spit and Obi-Wan is kissing him like he’s trying to draw blood, like the only reason he’s kissing him is so that they’ll go back to the table and his wife will notice Anakin’s red lips and ask what happened.
The thought that Obi-Wan is kissing him for any other reason than because he loves him—he knows he does, he’s said—makes him even more furious. He rips himself away as quickly as he’d attacked.
Obi-Wan is breathing heavily against the sink.
“Don’t fucking flirt with the waitress in front of me,” Anakin says as calmly as he’s capable of. He catches sight of himself in the mirror behind Obi-Wan, and he doesn’t even recognize himself. His eyes are dark and his mouth is red and his chest is heaving.
“Don’t fucking hold hands with your wife in front of me,” Obi-Wan shoots back like he has any right to demand that from Anakin, any right at all to dictate his relationship with his wife.
It makes Anakin let out a crazed sort of laugh and he scrubs his hands over his face, through his hair. “Fuck, Obi-Wan. What the fuck are we doing? This…this is too much. This—”
He cuts himself off because Obi-Wan has stepped forward, into his space. It’s dangerous and it’s perfect and half of Anakin wants to pull him closer. The other part wants to push him away. That part has never won, and Anakin doesn’t think tonight will be the night it suddenly does.
Carefully, almost apologetically, Obi-Wan fixes the lay of Anakin’s tunics, covers him up and makes him presentable. His hands move just as gently up to his hair to comb it into place. Anakin shivers and lets him. This side of Obi-Wan is addicting as well.
After he’s been fixed and fawned over, Obi-Wan’s hands come to the back of his neck and rest there. For a second, Anakin thinks that he’s going to rise up on his toes and kiss him. Instead there’s fumbling and then Obi-Wan lifts the necklace Anakin is wearing off his neck.
Anakin thinks he needs to stop him. After all, it had been Obi-Wan who had given the jappor snippet back to him in the first place two years ago, telling him that there was no way his wife wouldn’t notice.
“Why don’t you keep this for me?” He’d said. “Wear it around your neck, tell your wife you’ve just been missing Tatooine. It wouldn’t be a lie. We’d just be the only two that knows what it means.”
The symbol on the pendant that Obi-Wan turns to fasten around his own neck means homesick. He’d carved it for the man after a month and a half of not being able to see each other. He’d—it’d been hard. It’d felt impossible, it’d felt wrong. Homesick for Obi-Wan.
When Padmé had noticed the new addition to her husband’s wardrobe, she’d asked what it meant. After all, he’d given her one all those years ago, a snippet he carved that meant good fortune. “We’ll match,” she’d said with a charming giggle, showing him the bracelet she’d fastened the snippet into. “And let’s see about visiting Tatooine soon.”
What neither Padmé nor Obi-Wan had understood, of course, was that on Tatooine, nothing was more important than one’s home. A place for family. A place to shelter from the elements. Safety and comfort and love wrapped in one.
On Tatooine, the symbol for homesick had five lines diverging from the middle and curling around themselves in a knot to leave an empty circle.
The pendant around Obi-Wan’s neck right now has the same design, but the circle is filled in. This symbol means, simply, home.
“This is mine,” Obi-Wan tells him. They both know they’re not just talking about the pendant. “I’ll remember if you do.”
Anakin wishes he could bring himself to forget, but it’s impossible. Obi-Wan makes it impossible just by being in the same room.
Later that night as he’s getting ready for bed, Padmé asks him what happened to his pendant.
“Must have slipped off some time during dinner,” he tells her.
“Oh, that’s such a shame! You should call the restaurant tomorrow morning and see if they’ve found it. I know you were attached to it.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I will.” You’re such a bitch, he wants to say. But it’s not true. It’s not true and he can’t hurt her like that, not when he’s already hurting her in other ways. Ways she doesn’t even know about yet.
Yet.
#asks#cheating au#cw: infidelity#obikin#prompt fill#yes i am still working on these bless#obi-wan taking the pendant and wearing it is him basically gearing up to say#'i'm sick of not being yours/having you in public and i am very close to saying fuck it so be prepared for that xoxo'#anakin sort of gets this
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stay by my side (or keep me awake)
Title: stay by my side (or keep me awake)
Fandom: Irondad
Word Count: 1153
Prompt: Peter is already prone to nightmares. Yet a fever can turn his dreams from scary, to downright horrifying (prompt #88 from @irondadmadlads)
A/N: For @life-of-pines who should NOT BE ENCOURAGING ME LIKE THIS
Tony has been woken up by a lot of terrible sounds in his life. Sounds he doesn’t care to revisit, so he’s shoved them down, deep down, and sure, someday that’s probably going to come back to bite him in the ass. The point is, he’s seen sights and heard sounds that most people can only imagine.
But nothing, he realizes as he’s jolted awake at 1:47 a.m. on a Sunday morning, is worse than being woken up by the sound of a child screaming. Even if that child is a sixteen-year-old with superhuman abilities.
“Peter!?” He stumbles out of bed and rushes out of his room, glancing up at the ceiling. “FRI?”
He doesn’t hear F.R.I.D.A.Y. tell him that Peter’s temperature is 102.9 degrees, or that his blood pressure is rising, or that he’s waking from a nightmare. He just hears another anguished cry coming from Peter’s room. He runs.
By the time Tony reaches him, Peter’s cries have turned to whimpers and muffled sobs. He’s curled up on his side on the very edge of his bed, face tucked into his pillow, shivers and sobs shaking his body. Tony drops down next to the bed, his hands hovering over the teen.
“Peter?”
Peter turns his head slightly to squint up at Tony out of one eye for just a moment, and Tony sees the tears streaming down his face, pouring from bloodshot eyes.
Tony starts babbling, then, a repetition of I know and it’s okay and I’m right here spilling from lips in an attempt to soothe Peter. He’s about to try to get an answer out of the kid about what’s wrong when he puts his hand on Peter’s wet cheek and feels that it’s hot against his palm. He slides his hands up into Peter’s hair, lightly rubbing the scalp through sweat-soaked curls, and Peter shudders at the touch before stilling, his body tense and chest expanding as he holds in a breath.
“You’re burning up,” Tony says, because fuck, it really feels like Peter’s skin is on fire.
Peter huffs out a trembling exhale. “I am?” It’s the first thing Peter’s said since Tony got to his room, and his voice is wrecked. Tony isn’t sure if it’s from the illness or the yelling.
Peter looks up at Tony in confusion, then brings a hand up to his chest, patting his shirt a little like he’s feeling for the part that’s burning up. He moves his hand up to his neck, fingers trailing through the sweat pooling in his collarbone, probing at his warm skin at shuddering again. “Oh no.”
It comes out so sad and weak that Tony stills his hands where they’re running through Peter’s hair.
“Oh, Roos. I just mean that you have a fever. You’re sick.”
“No, I’m not sick,” Peter replies hoarsely. “I’m…scared?” His voice cracks on the last word and it comes out like a question, and it’s immediately followed by a fresh round of sobbing.
“Shit,” Tony hisses. He keeps one hand in Peter’s hair, resuming his motion, and uses the other to wipe the tears from Peter’s face as they fall. Peter squeezes his eyes shut, then immediately opens them again.
“Don’t wanna fall back asleep,” he whimpers, but he’s already nodding off despite his attempt to keep his eyes open. His eyelashes flutter rapidly then still as his eyes close, soft snores replacing the weepy exhalations.
Tony stands carefully, moving as quietly as he can over to the door, and Peter snorts and snuffles into his pillow but remains asleep. He quickly grabs a fluffy towel and a washcloth from the bathroom, wetting the washcloth in the sink first before returning to Peter’s room.
He uses the towel first to dry Peter’s hair. He drapes it over his head, rubbing gentle circles, then uses a corner to dab at the sweat along the side of his face and neck. There’s a small gasp when he places the cool washcloth on the back of Peter’s neck.
“I’m sorry, Roos, I know that probably feels cold.”
Peter’s eyes fly open with another gasp and a stuttered “N-no, please! Don’t hurt…don’t…”
“I’m not trying to hurt you, Pete. Just trying to cool you down a little.”
“Don’t want to be cold,” Peter whimpers. His nose is stuffed up from all of the crying, or maybe from the illness that’s coming on, and it makes him sound younger.
“Do you want to change into a dry shirt?” Tony asks, watching Peter shiver with a frown.
Peter nods and brings up one fist to clumsily rub at his eyes. “A hoodie?” He asks hopefully.
Tony shakes his head. “Nope, just a shirt, bud.”
“A…turtleneck shirt?” Peter asks, and Tony almost snorts out a laugh.
“A t-shirt,” he clarifies. “Your fever is too high.”
“Karen? She has a heater?” Peter tries one more time, not yet losing his hopeful tone.
Tony sighs. “No, bud. Your body is really hot right now, and I know it’s making you feel cold, but your suit’s heater would not be good for you.”
“You’re the one who gave her the heater,” Peter grumbles, his tone sliding into something more grumpy. His face scrunches into a little pout and he closes his eyes.
After a moment, Tony thinks he might be falling asleep again, but then Peter’s gasping so hard it makes him cough, and he scrambles back toward the wall like he’s trying to escape something.
“Peter! Peter, it’s okay! It’s okay,” Tony says, reaching out a tentative hand. His fingers find Peter’s shoulder. He waits until Peter catches his breath a little, then wraps his hand more firmly around his bicep. He really needs a new, dry shirt. “Hey, you okay? You’re okay.”
Peter swallows back a sob. “I don’t want to see it again,” he whispers, voice broken and sad. “I keep seeing it when I…when I close my eyes…”
Oh, shit. A nightmare. With the fever, Tony had nearly forgotten about the screaming that had brought him into Peter’s room in the first place. Peter is prone to nightmares, but never this bad. He takes a deep breath through his nose while he considers what to do, but he’s already making a decision.
Peter’s already over on the far side of the bed, leaving enough room for Tony to squeeze in next to him. He wraps his arms around Peter and tugs him toward his chest, and Peter melts easily into the warm embrace. He sniffles a little into Tony’s chest and shivers, nuzzling against his shirt until he’s in a position he’s happy with, and Tony smiles despite being incredibly uncomfortable himself. He’s positive he’s going to be sore and sweaty within the hour, and he’s not really sure what kind of night they’re in for, but at least he can be here for Peter through it.
#tumblr prompt#prompt fill#sick peter parker#fever#peter parker whump#nightmares#irondad#hurt/comfort
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Ohhh. It's so hard to pick! I love all of these! But I think I'm going to go with Dec 14th: an "unfortunate"gift. 😉😉
It's no longer December 14th, but here is December 14th's prompt, made extra long to compensate for the wait :) Merry Christmas to the wonderful and patient @sniction-fiction, and to the rest of those who celebrate.
In the distance, and above the frigid howl of the wind, the bells of Saint Sulpice chimed a quarter past the hour. D’Artagnan looked to his friends who were gathered at the table with him, still awaiting the fourth friend whose idea it had been to gather at Athos’s apartment before the Christmas feast and exchange gifts. Porthos had taken to tapping the table with his knuckles. Athos was draining the dregs from his third cup of wine.
Porthos frowned, sparing a glance out the wintry window. “He’s fifteen minutes late.”
“The weather probably delayed him this morning,” Athos said drily, pouring himself more wine. “Where was it this year, Tours?”
“Amiens.” Porthos shook his head. “I think. Or maybe Angers. I can hardly keep track of his ladies.”
“It’s a wonder he can.” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “I’d need a roster to help me remember.”
“I think Aramis could use one,” Porthos laughed. “Free up a bit of space in that little head of his.” Porthos tapped at his own skull for emphasis, before turning and wagging that same finger with gusto at the young Gascon. “Hey, maybe that should be your present to him next year. A neat little accounting book, where he can keep a list of his mistresses. Names in one column, gifts they give him in the other.”
Athos hummed in bemused approval, and D’Artagnan snorted. “Is it really that bad?”
Athos and Porthos shared a long, knowing look, before Athos cleared his throat. “I think his record is the year he came home from the newly widowed Lady D’Bouconvilier’s country estate with another horse to carry all his gifts.”
D’Artagnan’s eyes went as wide as saucers and Porthos laughed. “Or when he came home from Rouen with a big bottle of Persian perfume swaddled to his chest–I thought he’d come home with a son!”
D’Artagnan guffawed and listened with rapt intent as Porthos and Athos took turns relaying the details of Aramis’s other Christmas tradition besides the Mass: the week prior to the holiday he spent making a tour of his wealthiest paramours from the year. From the sounds of it, Aramis had hardly bought himself anything in his life; item after item which D’Artagnan had seen the man possess turned out to be gifts, from the saddle on his horse to the knife he used to trim his beard. Porthos was just about to tell the story behind a pair of braes when the door handle turned at last and Aramis slipped inside, shivering in his overcoat and clutching a satchel.
“Well, speak of the Devil, here he comes,” Porthos cried. “What was the gift from the mistress this year, eh?”
Aramis closed the door behind him wordlessly. He dropped the satchel from his shoulder so abruptly that it collided with the floor with a resounding thump that had a note of precarious breakability. For a moment, it seemed as though he had not heard the question directed at him, but the real reason for his silence became apparent when, in one swift and well-honed gesture, he whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his face. “Heh’ETCHHH!”
Aramis lowered the handkerchief just enough to give his reply. “A cold,” he croaked bitterly, though of course such a resounding sneeze had been answer enough in its own right. “She claimed to be well but… Heh’Heh’KSHHHH!” The handkerchief was back in place, his speech muffled into the folds. “Clearly that was–EHhh’KMPSSHH! Ugh, God.”
With a miserable sniffle and a wipe, Aramis tucked the handkerchief back away. He dragged a chair back from the table a bit, until its back was flush with the wall, and plopped unceremoniously into it. He slumped, tipping his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes for a long blink. He waved his hand. “Don’t come too close, this isn’t one of the gifts I want to give to you.”
“Rotten gift,” Porthos said, brow furrowed, voice full of gruff sympathy. “Did she give you anything else?”
Aramis blinked his eyes back open. “A lovely tortoiseshell hair comb but–Snf!” He rubbed at his rapidly reddening nose with the back of his knuckles, his nostrils glistening and twitching. “This is the gift which is most memorable. Ihhh’KRSHHHH’uhh!” Aramis dipped forward into his cupped hands, lingering in such a position for a silent, sniffling moment before straightening again. He rubbed at his throat.
“Ow,” he pronounced clearly. “And which I’m least grateful for.”
Athos poured him a cupful of wine, and Aramis took it gratefully, downing it all in one go with a pronounced wince and a cough. They spoke a bit with Aramis about his travels, asking after the food (lovely), the ride (easy), the weather (horrid), before Aramis shook his head with an airy cough.
“But I’ve wasted enough time with my tardiness!” he cried, and retrieved his satchel. “Let us not waste any more with such idle chatter. Let us exchange our gifts, now four of us instead of three.”
D’Artagnan smiled, feeling his own bag at the floor between his feet. “Who should go first?”
Athos inclined his head as he set down his cup. “How about Aramis, since he’s already received a gift?”
Aramis flashed a smirk at him. “Funny.” His voice was so occluded he could not help a rather unseemly throat clearing and snuffle combination, but still Aramis brought the satchel to his lap and begin to sift through its contents. His downward gaze created a veritable flood out of his already runny nose, and he sniffled on each breath as he considered what was in the satchel carefully, deliberation over whose gift to give first written clearly across his twitching features.
At last, he reached decisively into the pouch, but had to abort the action almost as soon as he had done it, for a massive sneeze came over him. The hand came up to hurriedly cup over his nose. “Hh’TSCHHH!“ Hehh’ISHshhh! Oh, excuse me,” he said, voice all congestion, as he pinched and wiped away at his nose. He looked down at his fingers, and blushed. “Could I trouble one of you for a handkerchief? This cold is all in my nose.”
His friends had seen the mess upon his hands as clearly as he, and so D’Artagnan, perhaps just as eager as Aramis to be rid of such a sight, was up and offering his own handkerchief to the man in an instant. “Here.”
“Thank you,” Aramis said, and cleaned up his hand as much as his face.
“Please, keep it,” D’Artagnan said forcefully as he took his seat again. “Merry Christmas.”
Aramis gave a grateful nod as he buried his nose into it and gave a blow so soggy and forceful that D’Artagnan winced. “Well, since our Gascon has so generously given me a gift already,” Aramis said with a smile, giving the handkerchief a demonstrative wave. “I will start with him.”
He reached into the satchel, pulled out a pair of black leather gloves lined with fur, and leaned forward to pass them to D’Artagnan. “To preserve the warmth of your fragile, Gascon hands against the cruelty of the Paris wind.”
D’Artagnan gaped a bit as he took the gift from his friend, and his mouth dropped open further as he tugged the snug leather over his fingers. He flexed and clenched his fist, examining his gloved hand from all angles. “They fit perfectly, Aramis,” he said in a hushed voice. “How did you know–”
Aramis grinned cheekily. “How soon you forget just how many times I had to reposition those very hands on a musket.”
D’Artagnan blushed crimson at the reminder of his green incompetence. “Thank you,” he said after another long moment spent gazing at the leather. “This is truly a thoughtful gift, my friend.”
“Now I better not hear you complaining of the cold ever again,” Porthos said, cupping his hands over his mouth and blowing into them obnoxiously loudly, a mimic of D’Artagnan’s chosen method of warming and passive-aggressive complaint whenever the wind had the slightest nip to it. D’Artagnan removed one of the gloves and swatted Porthos on the shoulder with it.
“Careful!” Aramis admonished playfully. “Perhaps you won’t be so quick to violence against your friend once you see what I’ve gotten him.”
This time, Aramis produced a small knife in a delicately patterned wooden casing from the satchel, and held it in an outstretched arm. “Take it, Porthos, I have to–” The precarious waver in Aramis’s breath left no ambiguity to his meaning, and so Porthos quickly snatched the item from him. Aramis snapped forward, tucking his chin to his chest and involuntarily squeezing the satchel close. “HETCHHH!”
He dug out the handkerchief again and held it hovering just inches away from his quivering, dripping nose as his breath hitched in preparation for another. “Ihhh… Oh…Snf!” Aramis teetered a moment on the precipice. His eyes, glazed and misty, looked nowhere in particular as they fluttered shut once more. “IHHH’KSHHH’uhhh!”
Porthos unsheathed the knife from its casing, and turned it over in his hands, recognizing at once that it was a woodworking knife. It felt instantly more comfortable in his grasp as he mimicked a whittling motion than did his dagger.
“It’s beautiful,” Porthos murmured. “Thank you, mon ami.”
“So that you no longer have to sully the blade of your dagger when boredom strikes on a mission.” As he spoke, Aramis rubbed his nose with the handkerchief, making slow and squelchy circles, trying to draw out the remaining tickle. “Hehhh’ISHHH’oo!” The sneeze which he had coaxed forth was harsh and wet, leaving moisture behind not only beneath his nose but also his eyes. Aramis huffed an annoyed laugh and scrubbed at his eyes and his nose a couple times with the handkerchief. “Ugh, I’mb leaking.”
The three friends shared a look while the fourth cleaned himself up, but nothing more was said on the matter. Aramis let the handkerchief fall into a sad, sodden bundle on his lap while he retrieved the last item from his satchel. The glass bottle had been the source of the clatter when the bag had hit the floor earlier, but fortunately the wine was undamaged.
“And for Athos.”
Athos took the bottle reverently, his eyes widening as he realized its contents cost about ten times the amount he usually spent on his vice. “Aramis, this is… expensive.”
Aramis smiled, even as his nose dripped. “Your skills of appraisal are astute as always.”
Athos shook his head. “No, Aramis, I mean it, this is–”
“Heh’KSHHHH’oo! Ehhh’HISHHH!” Aramis gave a clogged laugh as he squeezed his nose between two folds of the handkerchief to wipe it. “See? Snf! Even my nose has no patience for your foolish protestations.”
“Then, I see no other option but to open it and share it with friends.”
Athos uncorked the bottle and poured from it into each of their cups, mistakenly dribbling a bit on the table near where D’Artagnan’s gloves lay. Horrified at their proximity to destruction, D’Artagnan snatched the gloves away and squawked at Athos, who rallied with a calm, choice set of words of his own. Porthos laughed as they squibbled and Aramis, for his part, merely slumped a bit in his chair, unnoticed.
Porthos opened his mouth to quip something at Aramis, only to find the man had leaned his head back against the wall, screwing his eyes shut and pinching at the bridge of his nose. When Aramis seemed about to stay that way indefinitely, Porthos scooted his chair around the table, closer to his friend. Aramis gave no indication he had heard the move. Porthos frowned and nudged him with an elbow. “Hey, are you feeling alright?”
Aramis lowered his hand and blinked, a bit heavy and startled as though he’d forgotten where he was. “Yes, I’ve…” He blew out a sigh, and even that sounded stopped to the brim with congestion. “I’ve just got this terrible headache.”
Porthos’s frown deepened. “Just now?”
Aramis’s gaze flicked from friend to friend, as they were all watching him intently now. He sighed again, finishing with a tickly cough. “All day,” he admitted quietly. “It’s only been getting worse.”
“Why don’t you go lie down?” Athos said, voice as gentle as it was firm. “We will fetch you before Reveillon.”
Between the tenderness in his ordinarily stoic friend’s voice and the incessant pounding in his own head, there was little room for resistance to such a sound suggestion, and so Aramis rose gingerly, feeling his muscles sore from the cold, his cold, and all the riding he had done. He gathered his satchel on his shoulder and began to shuffle toward the door, when Athos’s voice stopped him.
“Where are you going?”
Aramis fixed him with a bewildered expression. “To go lie down?”
Athos huffed, as close to a laugh as anything he ever did. “Surely your brain is not so addled with cold that you don’t remember my bedchamber is that way?” He pointed in the opposite direction.
Aramis blinked as Athos’s intention broke through the mist in his brain. “Your bed… Athos, no.” He sniffled and coughed. “Not with a cold like this.”
“Well,” Athos said, reclining disinterestedly in his chair, “if you prefer to trudge all the way back to your apartments in the biting wind, I shan’t stop you.”
Aramis chewed at his chapped lip. “Still, I hate the thought that I could pass this along… I hate the thought of giving you such an unfortunate gift. Any of you.”
“We’ve all gotten our fair share of unfortunate gifts.” Porthos chuckled, shaking his head. “Remember when Athos gave me a book before I could read?”
Athos’s cheeks blushed the faintest of pinks, but his eyes narrowed at Porthos. “Remember when you gave Aramis what you were convinced was lavender oil, but which made his hands red and blistered and itchy for weeks?”
D’Artagnan shrugged and added, “My cousin gave me a collar for a dog I didn’t even have.”
Aramis gave a congested, but happy-sounding laugh, and coughed wetly into the handkerchief. He smiled tenderly at his friends, who were laughing too, but before he could add to the conversation, a sneeze stole his breath, sending him hitching into the sodden handkerchief. “Hhhh’ehhh’EHHDSKHH!”
“Go lie down, my friend,” Athos said, and Aramis nodded through his snuffling. He raised his hand and the handkerchief it held in a haphazard farewell before crumpling back into it as he shuffled away to Athos’s bedchamber. “Heh’RSHHH!”
The trio who remained turned their gifts over in their hands, discussing them all in subdued marvel. When enough time had passed that the three friends were sure the fourth had fallen asleep, they assembled a tray to leave on his bedside table for when he woke. Sure enough, the congested snores which filled the bedchamber advertised that they had been correct in their assessment, and so they shuffled quietly in, depositing their gifts beside their sleeping friend, bundled beneath the bedcovers. They had left him two handkerchiefs–Athos’s and Porthos’s sacrificed to the cause now just as surely as D’Artagnan’s–as well as a mug of tea and some mint paste Athos had found in his cupboard. They were unconventional gifts for Christmas, to be sure, and likely not exactly what Aramis envisioned himself in want of, but that was no matter. There would be time for more exchanging of gifts when Aramis was well again.
#answered asks#december prompt fill#christmas sickfic#sick ara/mis#more muskie snz!!!#the world needs so much more historic snz fic#snz fic#my writing
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hi do you think you could do a story where omega steve takes care of sick alpha billy 🥺 just love the thought of billy thinking steve is being so overdramatic with all his concern and telling him to stop bc he’s supposed to be the one doing the caretaking but also relishing in someone taking care of him in a way he’s never experienced before
Okay so this probably isn't EXACTLY what you pictured, it's more character study than plot, but... It's really fuckin' soft.
Harringrove fluff, A/B/O, established relationship, sickfic
There are many historical Omegan stereotypes that Steve fights tooth-and-nail to disprove on a daily basis. He isn’t dainty, he’s only polite in certain company, he isn’t soft spoken, and he doesn’t simply agree to things for the sake of a peaceful environment. He has the scars and long-healed fractures to prove his physical ferocity, too.
But there’s one aspect of his nature that he no longer tries to overcome. He doesn’t spend unnecessary energy trying to hide or ignore his caretaker’s instincts, not after what happened at the junkyard.
Steve loves taking care of people. Lucas sprained his ankle during a preseason basketball practice game in eighth grade and his ‘babysitter’ did such a good job keeping him in line that he was back on the court three days earlier than the doctor predicted. It’s a talent the Omega is proud of. He’s really good at making people feel better.
Billy, unfortunately, is not used to being taken care of. He’s always protecting Max (and Steve, though he constantly refutes it to his boyfriend’s face). He’s always working himself to the bone at the pool or apprenticing for a local mechanic to pay for new clothes. Or gifts and dates for Steve. The Alpha has always been a giver and a protector.
So when he gets sick with a highly contagious Alpha-specific virus in the early autumn and can’t go to school for an entire week, he resigns himself to pushing through it like he usually does.
But now he has Steve at his side, and Steve makes a world of difference.
Bowls of warm, delicious homemade soup are pushed into Billy’s hands twice a day, always a different flavor and always fresh. He’s given either oatmeal or toast for breakfast, with tea and fruit if the first half doesn’t upset his stomach. Steve watches him eat and wipes at the corners of his mouth with a napkin – not with an air of disapproval that makes Billy feel infantilized, but with a tender attentiveness that melts the Alpha to his core.
“I love you, but I don’t love finding food in your mustache,” the Omega jokes.
Steve fucking dotes on him all week long. His boyfriend waits on him hand and foot like Billy is some kind of spoiled fairy-tale prince. It���s… It’s really fucking nice, actually, and Billy has no clue how to deal with that realization.
The realization that he doesn’t have to suffer his way through life, hurting and alone. Not anymore.
He thanks Steve for every little favor, desperate to communicate just how much he appreciates the kind treatment. Steve’s gentle hands. Billy has to make his boyfriend understand that he’ll do anything for him. He’ll complete whatever task is set to him.
He’ll do everything in his power to make Steve happy, too.
#harringrove sickfic#harringrove character study#harringrove#anonswers#harringrove prompt fill#a/b/o#abo tw#omega steve#alpha billy#sick billy#caregiver steve#fluff and hurt/comfort
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🧻 A: Namjoon B: Seokjin lol. ty :)
double-whump prompts
snz, illness, allergies
word count: 583
“Joon-ah!”
Seokjin stands above him, holding up a plastic bag triumphantly.
“You can stop using those rough paper towels,” Seokjin continues, pushing said paper towels aside so he can plop his bag down on the table. He reaches into the bag for something and focuses on Namjoon’s nose. “God, your nose is so red.”
Namjoon sniffles ineffectually and flushes at the attention to his nose. He’s been nursing a bad head cold for a few days now and his nose has suffered the worst– congested and running at the same time, something that blowing his nose into paper towels a hundred times hasn’t helped in the least. Now, his nose feels like it’s on fire, swollen and aching and itchy, but Seokjin had promised to come back with something to help so he’s hopeful.
Seokjin pulls out a box of tissues and holds it up proudly. “Ta-da!”
“Where’d you get those?” Namjoon asks hoarsely, frowning. As far as he knows, there aren’t any stores open at this time of night– or morning, whatever.
“I have my ways,” Seokjin grins. He rips open the box and offers it up. His grin falters at the way Namjoon has to cough first, the sound congested and crackly.
“Hyung got you the good ones,” Seokjin says, voice impossibly soft, and Namjoon blames the fact that he’s so incredibly sick and so incredibly stuffed up that he doesn’t notice what Seokjin means by the “good” ones until he’s folding a couple over his nose to blow into and is hit with an intense, almost burning tickle in his sinuses.
“Whatthefuck,” Namjoon barely has time to get out before he’s sneezing, one sudden and forceful sneeze at first and then he’s dissolving into a fit, each consequent sneeze tumbling out of him before he’s able to really get a breath in from the last. “Hhh-HTCH’uh! Oh– hh-ktch! ktsh’chuh! HGSH’uh! hhGSH! ktch-ehhsh-HHCHSH!”
Unfortunately for Namjoon, Seokjin doesn’t realize what’s happening at first; he yanks a handful of the scented tissues from the box and cups them around Namjoon’s streaming nose to catch the mess, eyes wide in near panic as Namjoon sneezes and sneezes and keeps on sneezing.
“Huhh-ISHchuh! KTSH’uh! ehhsh! HGSH’uh! HKCH’uh!”
Namjoon jerks back, away from the offensive tissues, and ducks into the crook of his elbow to keep sneezing.
“Oh my god, Joonie. What the…okay, okay, you’re okay.” Seokjin is trying really hard to keep calm, but he can hear the alarm in his own voice.
“I’m– HGSH’uh! I can’t– can’t…HHCHSH! hh-HTCH’uh!”
Seokjin seems to realize what’s going on, and shoves the whole tissue box away like that might help.
“I’m so– hh-ktch! I’m so ahhh…I– HGSH’uh! Those ones a-are-hhhhh…”
“You’re allergic?” Seokjin supplies, cringing when Namjoon nods and then sneezes four more times.
“I’m so sorry,” he groans, reaching out to rub Namjoons back. “I had no idea.”
“It’s– it’s oh-hhh…oh’huhhh! HGSH’uh! HKCH’uh! ktchSHUH!”
“Shh, it’s okay. Don’t try to talk, just get it all out. Oh, Joonie.” Seokjin pulls the sleeve of his shirt down over his hand and reaches up, gently dabbing at the tears on Namjoon’s cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Namjoon is finally able to get in a solid breath, and he sucks it in greedily, pinching his nose between his fingers. His eyes are red and his nose is somehow even redder and he drags his own sleeve over his itchy, streaming face. “You didn’t know,” he says, shrugging. “HKSHCH!
“Well…” Seokjin says guiltily, “At least that cleared you out finally?”
#bts snz#sick namjoon#caretaker seokjin#bts sickfic#sick bts#sickfic#double whump#prompt fill#drabble#allergies
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would you be willing to write for ryan from the office again? :)
Ryan Howard is super sick. A new coworker takes care of him and helps him with his congestion. CW: Induced sneezing (non-kink).
So I know canonically Ryan is a selfish, egotistical ass who never learns from his mistakes, but I can just imagine him being a little more subdued and boyish and eager to please when he first starts his fancy corporate job, and even more so if he finds himself miserably sick. For that reason, this story is set within the first few weeks of him leaving the Scranton branch and starting his new role. Mess warning, definitely more than I usually write. It was egg week when I wrote most of this, so no apologies. This also refers to sn*t and other less “pretty” snz words often, because that’s how I imagine Ryan would think about them.
To the anon who requested, sorry as always for the long wait. Winter sucks the writing juice out of me without fail. At least it’s extra long anyway. Hope this is somewhat what you were looking for.
Based on this post by @nobodybetterlookatme
Prompts used (from this old prompt list):
🦠 sniffles
🤧 sick for the holidays
What A Lovely Way to Burn
Ryan Howard scrubbed his hands over his face for the third or fourth time that hour, noting yet again how cold his hands felt against his cheeks. He sniffled, coughed, hating the grating sound it made and how much it hurt his head and throat. He had hardly put his hands down when a demanding itch flared up in his sinuses and he scrambled to grab a tissue.
"KZZT'choo! KHGGZT'choo!!" The thick, stifled sneezes had unpleasantly shifted all the congestion in his head, and he blew what felt like a gallon of slime out of his nose.
"You've been in New York for two weeks in the middle of summer, and you're already sick?" came a laughing voice from nearby. Ryan jumped, shoving the nasty tissue out of sight hurriedly. A hot girl, in fact that hottest girl here, the one that had caught his attention from the first day, was standing in front of his desk. Actually, leaning on it would be more accurate. She smirked at him flirtatiously, taking in his barely-unpacked desk and sickly, disheveled appearance. "Happy fourth of July, by the way."
"Yep. Happy fourth of July. Sick for the most random holiday. Call me lucky, I guess," he said, wishing he could pronounce the consonants properly.
"New York has that effect on people. Sorry about your luck, Lucky. My name's Tiffani. With an I.
"Nice to meet you, Tiffani with an I. And my name isn't actually Lucky. It's Ryan."
"I noticed." She nodded to the shiny nameplate on the front of his desk that had just arrived that morning. "Well Ryan Howard, VP of Northeast Sales, you are clearly a walking health hazard. What the hell are you doing here if you're sick?"
"I mean you said it yourself," he croaked. "I haven't even been here two weeks yet. It would look so bad if I called in already."
"Hmm." Before he realized what she was doing, her cool hand was pressed against his forehead. She made a soft sound in her throat, then suddenly both her hands were gently cupping his cheeks.
"You have a fever. Poor thing," she cooed, gently running her thumbs over his cheek bones.
He sniffled wetly, then coughed. "That's no big deal. I just hate that I can't stop coughing and sneezing."
"Aww, honey. You should be in bed," she said sternly.
"Trust me, I wish I was. But I just… I can't. Now's not the right time."
"Hmm," she said again, scrutinizing him. "If you say so. Have you eaten?"
He shrugged. "Not really. I'm not hungry. I can't taste anything, so–"
"Well that doesn't matter. You still need to eat. Wait here."
He watched her go, feeling a little breathless from everything that had transpired in the past five minutes, snotty cold notwithstanding.
Tiffani was gone longer than he expected (though he really had no idea what to expect), so he was attempting to work once more when a box of tissues hit him in the arm, nearly making him leap out of his seat. He glanced up to find Tiffani smirking at him yet again, holding a styrofoam takeout container.
"I said your name twice and you didn't even look up. Are you always this easy to scare?"
"No," he said sullenly. "My ears are all plugged up with everything else. And I was trying to concentrate."
"My apologies. I didn't realize you were so busy and important. Guess I'll take back the stuff I got you if you don't want it…."
He quickly pulled the desperately-needed box of tissues out of her reach. These weren't the crappy industrial office ones he'd been using either–they were the premium lotion ones.
"No, I want it," he said quickly. "Thank you. For bringing them."
"That's only half of it." She set down the styrofoam container and pushed it toward him. "You need to eat. You'll feel better if you do."
He reached for this offering almost in spite of himself, feeling a sudden, low rumble of hunger. The container was very warm; whatever it was would feel so good on his sore throat. "Where did you get all this?"
"I had it delivered of course."
"But… why?"
"Sucking up to the new VP, why else?"
Suddenly her hand was pressed to his forehead again, so fast he hardly saw her move. He found himself leaning into the touch almost reflexively, heavy and aching as his head was.
She clucked her tongue. "If you're going to stay, you need to take some medicine for that fever." She produced a bottle of Tylenol and pushed it toward him with the rest.
"You really don't need to do all this. It's just a cold." Yet he reached for the pills too, knowing her logic was sound. The next four hours would go much smoother if he was medicated. A thick, rumbling cough escaped before he could swallow the pills, making his chest and throat sear.
"Since you've apparently caught a cold from hell, I really think I do need to do all this."
"Why, though?" he croaked again, helplessly. "We hardly know each other."
She leaned in, giving him a clear view of the cleavage he'd been trying to avoid staring at until now. When she spoke, her voice was soft and silky. "Because someone needs to take care of the new boss, and that someone might as well be me." She straightened up again, brushing her hair over her shoulder with an air of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. "I'll be keeping an eye on you today. We'll make sure you start feeling better, for all our sakes. No one is getting any work done with you coughing and sneezing in here like you have been."
Ryan felt himself flush. "Thanks," he muttered, sniffling uncomfortably.
She was true to her word and checked on him regularly throughout the day. He wasn't entirely sure yet what her role was in the company, but apparently it had a lot of flexibility, judging by how much she was away from her desk. And every time she came, she brought him something else–cough drops, tea, more medicine. He had to admit, she was incredibly good at predicting his needs. He survived the intervening hours in far more comfort than he would have without her help.
Still, when the end of the day rolled around, he was the sort of utterly exhausted that only working while miserably sick can cause. Half dead on his feet, he slowly packed up to leave, and in the process he nearly crashed into Tiffani, who had snuck up on him once again and was standing beside his desk. In his foggy state he staggered and almost fell, but she caught him by the arm to steady him.
"You really are a mess, aren't you?" she asked, worry coloring her tone.
" 'm just sick," he mumbled, coughing wetly to prove his point. "And I didn't expect you to be standing there. What are you doing anyway?" he asked, noting that she was also dressed to leave and carrying her purse.
"Coming to take you home."
"I'm an adult. I don't need help getting back to my apartment."
"We're not going to your apartment. We're going to mine."
She laughed at the expression on his face at this development.
"You just moved here, and you're a guy, so I'm sure at best you're sleeping on a mattress on the floor. You also probably have no food or medicine at your place yet, which is why you're as sick as you are to begin with. It makes way more sense for you to come home with me. You'll be much more comfortable."
He frowned half-heartedly, but had no argument. She had him pegged perfectly. Nothing sounded better than a real bed and a furnished apartment right now.
Seeing she had won, she smirked. She proved her powers of observation once more when she prodded the toe of her shoe into the corner of the duffle bag peeking out from under his desk. "What's this? Gym bag?"
"Yeah. Was planning to use the gym here but…" he gestured vaguely at his red, dripping nose.
"Bring that with you, then, and let's go." She grabbed his elbow possessively. "You'll love my place. It's very cozy."
A subway ride and a short walk later, they were arriving at a section of lower-income but still decent housing hidden in the heart of the city. Ryan hardly knew the city yet, and he was too sick and tired to pay attention to where they were going, but let her lead him with gentle pushes and pulls on his arm, trying to look less contagious than he felt. He could tell his fever was creeping up by how hot his ears felt, and all he wanted to do was fall into something resembling a bed and not get up for a long time. He let her lead him into an apartment building, up a few flights of stairs, and through one of the doors off a hallway landing.
It was a quaint little studio apartment, painted in soft, muted tones with cheerful feminine accents here and there, bright and open. The bed was immediately to the right of the door, separated from the rest of the room by cleverly placed shelving units, giving the feel of it being more than one room while a cozy sitting area dominated the rest of the space. One wall was made up almost entirely of windows, and the sunset leant a lovely, natural glow to the atmosphere.
"You have a beautiful apartment," he rasped, getting less intelligible by the hour.
"Thank you. I've lived here for three years now. I love it."
Ryan would never be bold enough to take a stranger's bed without being asked, so he made for the large couch, kicking off his shoes and shedding his jacket as he went with another husky cough. His original plan was to sit on the couch and just breathe for a bit, and make an attempt to be good company, but the plush cushions were so comfortable that he sank sideways, almost against his will, until his face met the soft throw pillow on his right. His eyes fell closed of their own accord and he tucked his legs up as well, but he did his best to stay awake for the time being. In his current state, the wide couch felt more comfortable than any bed he'd ever slept in. Yet Tiffani didn't let him get too comfortable, and plied him with medications for the fever immediately.
"It's been hours since your last dose and you're looking really sick again," she explained, watching as he drank a glass of water with the pills.
"I can't say I don't feel it," he sniffled, lying back down.
"Poor thing," she cooed. "I'm glad you can finally rest for a while.
He listened as Tiffani puttered around putting her things away. Soft music began to play, and then he heard a sharp clicking sound. His eyes fluttered open to see her lighting a candle. At ease immediately, his lids slipped shut again.
It seemed only a moment passed before he felt her shaking his arm, but when he opened his eyes again, she had changed clothes and showered, and her hair was in a towel.
"You should get a shower and get out of your work clothes," she said. "You'll feel better when you're more comfortable."
He grunted his assent, his throat too sore to want to talk. He sluggishly levered himself into a sitting position, sniffling as he tried to avoid dripping on himself, then stood, grabbing his gym bag. The urge to sneeze overwhelmed him suddenly:
“Heh’KIHHPT’shoo! Hddd'TSHHHooo! Dihh'IHSHHooo!!
He almost doubled over with the force of the messy trio. He hardly had time to cover, let alone find a tissue, so his hands were covered in slime by the end. He made a disgusted sound in his throat as he surveyed the mess.
"Bless you. Now you definitely need a shower," Tiffani laughed, unperturbed. "Go get cleaned up. Maybe it'll clear your head a bit too."
He tried to do as he was told, but just as he reached his destination another pair of sneezes snuck up on him, further soiling his hands:
“KIIHHPT-ttsscch! KHHGGT'nxxt!"
“Bless you again,” Tiffani said dutifully.
"Why is this cold getting worse instead of better?" he griped, swiping a tissue from the bathroom counter to scrub at his hands and nose as he continued to sniffle fruitlessly.
"That's how colds work, silly," she said, rolling her eyes fondly.
"Will this one seems to suck more than most," he mumbled, shutting the bathroom door behind him at last.
The hot water did indeed help in many ways, from the aches to the congestion to the tiredness, and he emerged feeling marginally better, especially now that he was wearing soft workout clothes instead of a starchy shirt and pants. He managed to smile at Tiffani from the door of the bathroom, but the first breath he took of non-steamy air brought the sinus irritation roaring back, and he was forced to bury his face into the bundle of clothes in his arms as he exploded into the messiest sneezing fit yet:
Huhh’REHHSHHHoo! ESSHHHyoo! Kuh-hh-HUSSHHHoo! Huh’ISSHHoo! Hh-h… huh’KIISHHoo! Heh-hh… Hiihg’KSSHHoo!”
“BLESS you,” Tiffany said, looking startled now. “That was… intense. Do you feel better at least?”
Ryan could only shake his head as his breath started to hitch once more, eyes red and streaming already: “Hehh'dzz-IHHH'shoo! Heh'KIHHT'shoo! Kihhh'IHHTchoo! Hihh'GEHH-CHOOF!”
Tiffani frowned. “Something is setting you off. You shouldn’t be sneezing so much.”
“Mbaybe idt’s the ca’dle,” Ryan croaked, nodding to the counter where the scented flame was still flickering. “Budt those dond’t usually bother mbe….”
Tiffani didn’t wait for him to finish and quickly snuffed out the offending flame. Meanwhile Ryan crushed a handful of tissues to his weeping nose, trying to quell the persistent tickle as he staggered his way back to the couch, feeling much worse now than he had before the shower. His head throbbed, his eyes ached, his throat seared. The brief sense of relief the shower had provided was already a faint memory. He felt distinctly foggy as Tiffani plied him with food and fussed around, trying to make him comfortable. He managed a few bites, trying to make her happy. The itching in his nose never fully subsided, though, nor did the dripping, and now his head was also stopped tight with suffocating congestion from the forceful stifling, making him feel even more puffy and achy. He found himself unable to breathe any way but through his mouth, which made him cough more, and of course he had to keep a tissue perpetually pressed to his upper lip. In short, he felt all around disgusting. Wrapped up in his own misery, he didn’t realize Tiffani was talking to him until she nudged his shoulder a while later.
“Why are you breathing like a dying fish? You really don’t sound good.”
"Kinda feel like I'mb drowni’g," he slurred. “Cand’t breathe. Too congested.”
“I can see that,” she agreed. “Hm…” she glanced over her shoulder. “Do you want to try to get unplugged? I think sneezing might be better than whatever is happening to you right now.”
He was in no state to make decisions, but she was right, anything had to be better than this, so he nodded sluggishly, wondering what she had in mind. He didn’t have to wonder long, for in a moment she was holding a familiar candle under his nose, the same one that had just been burning. The wax still hadn’t hardened completely.
“Take a deep breath and don’t stifle anymore. Just let it happen.”
He gave her a skeptical look, but took the warm glass jar from her. “You bedder step bagck, then. I dond’t wandt to sndeeze on you.”
She obediently crossed to the other side of the room. When she was out of range, he took a hesitant whiff, nose only inches from the wax.
The results were instantaneous. His nostrils flared, his chest expanded and his breath gasped as he launched into the messiest, wettest sneezing fit he’d ever experienced. The congestion he’d created from stifling was apparently eager to be released, and everything came flying out at an alarming rate at the slightest provocation. He soaked through tissue after tissue as he sneezed and sneezed and sneezed, needing only a few breaths of the candle to keep himself going.
Several minutes later he felt significantly emptier, and at last he allowed the sneezing to taper to a stop with a final, tremendous nose blow. Completely exhausted, he let his throbbing head fall back. His nose was much better, but everything else was worse. He couldn't keep from groaning, both from relief and self-pity.
He felt the couch shift as Tiffani sat down beside him. Her cool hand on his burning face made him moan again as she brushed the damp hair from his forehead.
"Feeling better now?" she murmured.
He made a non-committal noise.
"Poor thing. You are so, so sick honey," she cooed. "You're absolutely burning up. You just rest now. I've got you."
Too tired to resist, when she gently pulled him to lay against her chest, he allowed it. Sitting mostly upright kept him from coughing too much, anyway. He found he was very comfortable this way, especially when he realized she was playing with his hair. In no time, lulled by her soothing touch and soothing breathing and soothing heartbeat, he was fast asleep.
#my writing#the of/fice#sick ry/an how/ard#oc insert#answered asks#prompt fill#thanks for the request. Sorry for the wait. You know the drill#this is kinda gross but I kinda love it#Makes me want to write someone with the kink and inducing in a sexy way#but we'll see if that ever happens#everyone is hotter with a fever#ask box story
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More matty sickfics please!!
Hello Kind Anon! I know you spent this back in December and I took ten thousand million years to write something, but alas here we are, I have finally completed a Sick Fic Tumblr Prompt fill. It might not be *exactly* what you are looking for, for which I apologize (I promise I am working on something about the IV situation at the end of SATVB) BUT I am happy that I managed to write *something* and am going to try really hard to get through some more of the wonderful prompts in my inbox now that I have finished the January OTP Prompt situation. Thank you again for the request! Let me know your thoughts (and if it's really not what you wanted please let me know and I'll try and write you another one!) Thank you for the support and have a great rest of the week- it's almost the weekend and happy February!
❤️Ally
Matty sickfic
“We’re rescheduling the show,” said George grimly, shaking his head even as Matty opened his mouth to argue.
“And don’t you even try and start,” George said, silencing him before he even had a chance to try and speak. He crossed his arms over his chest like a pouting child and sunk deeper into the blankets.
The concierge doctor, George felt bad, he didn’t remember his name, that had been called in to attend to him chuckled, adjusting the IV drip that Matty was attached too. Matty winced, the movement changing the flow of the cold fluids being delivered straight to his bloodstream. George wasn’t sure what was in the IV bag and he was almost afraid to ask, the answer would tell him just how sick Matty really was.
“I’ll be back to check on you in about an hour and change your drip,” he said kindly, “why don’t you try and get some rest?”
Matty tried to sigh dramatically but his theatrics were interrupted by a coughing fit, the sound wet and painful as his chest rattled, causing both George and the doctor to wince. Matty curled further in on himself. The air smelt of sickness and the cool, minty, scent of menthol was heavy in the room from the Vicks George had rubbed onto the skin of Matty’s chest. It made George’s eyes water as he sat down on the edge of the bed, hovering over Matty, as the doctor took his leave. Matty hadn’t even complained about the Vicks, his hatred of menthol well known, too congested to smell it even though it’s purpose was to clear his sinuses.
“Do you want me to call down and get you some soup?” George asked, his heart aching with the desperate need to be helpful, to fix Matty somehow, to make everything better.
“No,” Matty rasped, “hurts to swallow.” The and talk went unsaid.
He looked proper miserable, his nose red and irritated, his eyes wet and glassy with fever. It felt like as time went on, Matty became sicker and sicker, looking worse and worse instead of getting better. George bit his lip, and wondered if the concierge doctor their tour manager had summoned to the hotel had been the right call. He wondered if he should have insisted on taking Matty to the hospital himself when he woke to him clutching his tight chest, coughing so hard he could barely take a breath, tears streaming down his face as he wheezed.
George opened his mouth, he wanted to argue that he needed to eat something, he needed to keep his strength up. But the doctor’s instructions rang in his ears. Get some rest.
“Wait,” Matty wheezed, reaching out weakly to grab at the sleeve of George’s hoodie when he went to stand, intending on heading into the living room of their suite, leaving Matty to get some rest. “Stay.”
“Okay,” said George, folding easier than he knew he should. He could never deny Matty anything, especially when he was ill. He kicked off his trainers and swung his legs up onto the bed, adjusting his position so that he was leaning against the headboard, careful of the IV line attached to Matty.
Matty let out a little huff, and started wiggling, positioning himself so that he was half on top of George, half on the mattress, his head resting on George’s chest. He looked so young, so helpless and miserable that it made George’s heart ache as he ran his fingers through Matty’s sweaty, gray streaked curls. He sniffled, nuzzling his face into the divot between George’s pecks, the fabric of George’s long sleeve washer worn tee shirt soft against his cheek. George had a feeling that when he inevitably stood up he was going to have a wet drool and snot patch on his chest. It was objectively gross, but George didn’t care because it was Matty. He could never find anything related to Matty gross and the man had thrown up on him, more than once.
“I don’t want to disappoint the kids,” rasped Matty, not lifting his head from George’s chest as he spoke. George felt his heart break all over again. Matty was always giving pieces of himself away, always pushing himself to the absolute limit to try and make other people happy. He gave himself away and away until there was hardly any pieces of himself left.
“I think they’ll understand,” said George softly, “you can barely hold your head up, let alone talk. If you can’t talk, how are you supposed to sing?”
“They’ve been lining up for days,” Matty said before breaking out into a cough.
“And you can’t even take a breath without coughing,” George reasoned.
“They’ll understand, your health needs to come first, and if they don’t fuck ‘em, that’s not the kind of kids I want at our show anyway then,” George said.
He knew that even if Matty wouldn’t admit it, he had the bad habit of reading his own press. He had seen every vile word written about him the last nine months. He took it in stride, gritting his jaw and keeping his chin up even as his light, the spark that made him Matty dimmed. George knew that the media wasn’t going to be kind when they announced that they were rescheduling the show. He knew that their so-called fans would be even more vicious, especially the ones that had been lined up for days, caring more about the perfect TikTok video than the health of their so-called idol.
“I just want the tour to be over,” Matty said at last with another sniffle. Oh no thought George, he was starting to cry. “I just want to go home,” he hiccuped, turning his face into George’s chest again, “Please George, can we just go home.”
“Soon love,” said George, scratching lightly at Matty’s scalp. When he was no longer attached to the IV, and if he felt up to it later, George wanted to help him take a shower, knowing clean hair always made Matty feel better.
“I’m just so tired,” Matty said and George squeezed his eyes shut, his own eyes welling with tears at how broken, how burnt out Matty sounded. He knew that Matty wasn’t talking about just right now but of existing in general.
“I know love,” said George softly, “try and get some rest.”
He pressed a kiss to Matty’s damp curls and held him as he cried, desperately wishing that he could do more.
#allylikethecat#ask ally#anon ask#fanfiction#keep it kind#matty fic#gatty#fanfic#prompt fill#prompt fills#sick fic#sickfic#hurt/comfort#if anyone else wants to send any prompts#from a list or from their own brain#my inbox is always open!!#even if it takes me a little while to fill it#thank you for your patience and for sending this in#i know it probably want exactly what you were looking for#but i hope you still enjoy it!#thank you again for sending it in!!
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