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starpirateee · 3 months

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To the dear guest who requested this, thanks so much! I was personally expecting a sickfic at some point, so it's my honour!

Paul was never late. Ever. He'd basically made it part of his personality to show up to work and little events within a reasonable margin to be considered "on time".

But, somehow the luck just had to run out eventually. Like the day his car broke down and he had to catch the bus to work. that day, he was a good forty minutes late (most of which was spent on the phone to Tony Green, trying to find a time to drop his car off, and subsequently missing the bus that may have gotten him to work on time), and that was so late that he managed to walk into Ted in the hallway.

Ted was normally one to amble into work late, but this time felt a little different. The two of them shared the lift up to the right floor, and Paul couldn't help but notice the way Ted seemed to be having a little trouble staying entirely upright. He spent the few seconds that the journey took leaning against the wall, and avoiding looking at Paul and the lights above their heads.

As Paul had pretty quickly discovered, there was nothing particularly interesting about Ted's shoes.

"Uh, Ted... Are you okay?" he asked eventually, just as they reached their floor.

the lift stopped and the doors opened. Ted made quick work of exiting, mainly so he could avoid being confronted by anyone, but Paul's words drew him back. He turned around slowly, ignoring the way his head screamed it's protests, and nodded. "Yeah, 'm fine. Just hungover." He could get away with that, it was a Monday, right? People drank on a weekend...

"Ted, it's Wednesday..." Paul pointed out, in a manner that he thought was rather helpful.

Shit.

Of course it was.

Granted, Ted didn't know what day it was at the best of times, but he had been working the rest of the week, so he should've known that it wasn't a Monday. "Yeah, and? I'm... Allowed to drink on a Tuesday."

"... Okay. I mean, yeah, sure you are, but-"

the two of them walked onto the office floor, and Paul insisted on seeing Ted all the way to his door, just to really make sure.

"- y'know, not a lot of people do."

"Get off my case, Paul... I'm fine." He opened the door to his office, fumbling first to get his keys, and then again when he tried to get them in the keyhole. Paul watched the whole time, his head tilted like he was about to make some claim that Ted was lying. Ted raised an eyebrow at him. "don't you have somewhere better to be?"

That seemed to snap him out of it. He nodded and backed away to join the rest of the technical department. On the way, he shot a couple glances back at the now closed office door, knowing full well that Ted wasn't as fine as he made himself out to be.

those suspicions were only confirmed when he heard Bill sigh heavily in the next cubicle, shift in his seat, and mutter, "Jesus Christ, can't he keep that to himself?"

Paul leaned around the divider, brow furrowed. "What's the problem, Bill?"

"Can't you hear it? I mean, we all know what Spankoffski gets up to in that office of his, but he's not exactly making it subtle today..."

Initially, Paul winced in agreement. They did all know what Ted got up to when he was alone. The last time they confronted him about it, Ted only grinned and explained that the office network didn't have a blacklist put in place, so technically speaking, they had free reign to do whatever they wanted. But, he was never normally a problem about it, so reluctant as they were, they had left the matter alone and just tried not to think about it.

Paul realised there was probably a good reason why Bill could hear Ted today, and thankfully, it had nothing to do with... That. For once.

"I don't think that's what you're hearing," he hummed, shooting a quick, sympathetic glance towards the door.

"What're you saying? Bill asked. "He's clearly-"

"I know what it sounds like, but he said he was hungover when we got here, but I dunno whether I believe him..."

"It's Wednesday."

"I know. That's what I said. I don't think he's doing so hot. Uh, that is, I think he's sick."

And Paul wasn't talking about him as a person. Bill's brow creased, and he actively tried to focus. This time, both men heard what they thought was a shaky sigh, and a groan that sounded much more like a protest than a pleasure. They glanced at each other and Paul shrugged, his point having been proven.

"Yeah, no, I'm not buying it. He's not fine, and I don't care what he tries to tell me." With that, he stood up and started towards the door. Bill didn't try to stop him, but kept his eyes trained on the office as Paul approached.

He knocked first, half expecting Ted to have locked himself in.

"... 's open." Came the voice from inside, slightly more strained than it had been a few hours ago.

Oh.

Taking a quick, prepatory breath, Paul opened the door, dropping his other hand to his side. Ted was once again hunched over himself, discarding a tissue in the bin by his desk. He looked up, caught the concern so clearly written across Paul's face, and sighed. "Didn't I already tell you to get off my case, Matthews?" He asked, somewhat drily.

The only response Ted got was a nod.

"Then... What's the big idea, huh?"

"Bill thought- uh..." He glanced back, stopping himself mid sentence and deciding it wasn't worth it to follow that up. Ted probably already knew what Bill had assumed, anyway. He certainly didn't seem disappointed by being the name behind such a reputation. "You're... Not hungover, are you?"

"Good job, detective." Ted's chest heaved, and his next breath sent him into a bout of coughing. Paul noticed how raspy it was, and how rough Ted sounded when he came out of it. "It's nothing. Some... Flu or something I picked up from my brother, or one of his dorky classmates... I dunno. But I'm fine."

"Sure."

Quite surprised, Ted's eyebrows raised. "Was that sarcasm there? From you?"

Paul just shrugged. He could add sarcasm when he needed to. He totally knew the context for something like that... Thankfully, the subject was dropped before he could think about whether he'd done that intentionally or not.

"Why are you so bothered anyway?"

The fast attempt at giving an answer was broken off by another coughing fit, and in that time, Paul tried to refine his answer before realising he didn't really have a good one in the first place. He sighed. "I'm worried about you, man. You've gotten paler every time I look at you."

Ted faltered, his head lifting just enough to fully catch Paul's gaze and decipher that he did indeed look worried. He seemed sincere enough, and the thought of it- the thought of someone he didn't actually know that well, all things considered, seeming genuinely worried at his expense- made his eyes widen.

Paul picked up on the extended silence and shifted, now humouring the thought that he may have done something wrong. "What?"

"You're serious?"

"Huh? Of course I am. You need to get yourself home, you look like you're going to pass out. In fact... No, I can drive. If you want."

"You took the bus this morning," Ted reminded.

"I know. I meant your car. That way, you don't have to leave it here to forget about by tomorrow..." Paul hadn't thought this through. In his eyes, that just meant Ted wouldn't have to wake up the next morning and completely forget where his car was. Besides, it's not like he lived close...

"You're asking me for my keys? When I can just as easily drive myself home?"

"Will you make it?"

There was a silence. Ted realised pretty quickly that this was an argument he was going to lose, so he sighed as he stood up. It was fine, at least he wouldn't have to keep face here when all he wanted to do was sleep until his problems went away. "... Fine." He muttered, shoving his hand in his pocket for his keys and handing them out to Paul. "Wreck it and I kill you, 'kay?"

"Okay..."

#ted spankoffski #paul matthews #starkid #the guy who didn't like musicals #tgwdlm #void offering #nova's tags →#sickfic! hell yeah!!!#do these two have a ship name? is this even ship territory???#someone with more knowledge than me tell me what this ship is called idc if this fic is shippy or not i wanna know #... are they dirty chai/chaicoffee? is that them?

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danny-chase · 1 year

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Teen Titans (Comics), Titans (Comics), Nightwing (Comics) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dick Grayson & Roy Harper Characters: Dick Grayson, Roy Harper Additional Tags: Sickfic, Sneezing, Protective Dick Grayson, Roy Harper Needs a Hug, Cuddling & Snuggling, Teen Titans Era, Titans Era, background Teen Titans, background Lian Harper, Roy Harper has self-worth issues, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Roy Harper Whump Series: Part 25 of Bad Things Happen Bingo Summary:

Classic sickfic, with dueling stories, one when Dick and Roy were Teens living with the Teen Titans at Mr. Jupiter's headquarters, and the other later in life as adults. Side not of self-worth issues, and lots of snuggling ensues.

Then

It was a peaceful night at Mr. Jupiter’s headquarters, a welcome change from their normal wacky adventures. The Teen Titans were scattered around the base, lounging about and enjoying the well deserved break.

The muffled sounds of Mal practicing his trumpet wafted down the stairs to the common room, where Donna and Lilith were tangled up on the couch. The two were painting each other’s nails a bright shade of green and giggling over words they whispered too quietly for anyone else to hear.

Dick sat in the corner, eyes glued to some textbook that Roy couldn’t quite make out the title of. From glancing over his shoulder, it looked dull and terribly boring. Roy tried to catch his eye and strike up a conversation, but Boy Brainiac seemed intent on reading.

Roy sighed, and resigned himself to work instead. He dropped his quiver aside the workbench and set about making more of his trick arrows. He packed itching powder into hollowed out shafts, designed to burst on impact rather than puncture. When he was satisfied with the number, he put sleeping powder into the others. And when that was done, he couldn’t find an excuse to stay. The girls were preoccupied and Dick was obvious to the world, so he slipped towards the back hallway.

And then Roy sneezed.

“That was the tenth time you sneezed today.” Dick said, frowning from behind his book. He didn’t bother to look up. “And the third time this hour. Did you breathe in some of that powder?”

“I don’t think so.” Roy could feel Donna and Lilith’s eyes on the back of his neck. “Otherwise I’d be movin’ like there were ants in my pants. Or completely zonked out.”

“Still.” Dick didn’t let it go. “The average human sneezes four times per day. Ten sneezes is six sneezes above average. We’ve spent the day indoors, and based on my observations, you aren’t allergic to anything indoors, otherwise you’d be sneezing more on other days, therefore I’ve deduced you’re starting to come down with something and should see a doctor.”

Roy parsed through what Dick was saying. “You’ve been reading too many text books, Robbie.” English wasn’t his first language and he was reminded of that every time he talked with the aspiring scientist. “Wait a second.” Roy tracked back. “You count how many times we sneeze every day? Dude, that’s weird.”

Dick properly looked at Roy, raising his eyebrow. “The health of team members is relevant to team function. Therefore it’s my responsibility as leader to-”

“Boy Wonderful.” Donna caught Roy’s eye before he could pop off about intrusiveness. “In the nicest way possible, that’s weird. Please stop.”

Dick looked offended. “Bruce and Alfred keep track of how many times I sneeze. It’s not weird, it’s practical.”

“It’s weird.” Lilith confirmed. ‘Thank you’, Roy mouthed to her.

“Oh please, like you know what weird is.” Dick teased. “What’s a witch know about normalcy?”

“Quite a bit more than a normal person, I’d imagine.” Lilith replied. She flexed her hand and admired her nails. “A fish can’t see that he’s swimming in water. It takes a weirdo to know a weirdo.”

“Fine.” Dick acquiesced. “Maybe it’s weird, but that doesn’t change the fact that Roy’s sneezed ten times today.” He finally deemed the conversation important enough to close his book. He looked pointedly at Roy. “The facts are the facts.”

“I’ll take that under consideration, Boy Basketcase, but next time just say gesundheit.” Roy laughed.

Now

Roy shivered, his garage was cold. He sniffled and snuffled, working alone, wedged between his bike and the shelving racks that stored all of Lian’s summer toys. Toys which collected gratuitous amounts of dust, which naturally led to a sneeze. “Gesundheit.” Roy jumped and rammed his head against the shelf. His wrench clattered across the floor, slipping underneath the bottom of the shelf. Great. Just great.

“Damnit Dick, do you always have to sneak up on people like that?” Roy complained, rubbing the back of his sore skull.

Dick laid flat on the ground, retrieving the tool. “I was being quite loud actually. Maybe if you stopped sniffling for five seconds you would have heard me.” Roy rolled his eyes. His head now throbbed, on top of feeling stuffy. “Come inside, it’s chilly out here, you’ll make your cold worse.”

“I don’t want to get Lian sick.” He already felt guilty about how much school she missed on account of his life being a disaster.

Dick snorted. “She’s probably the one that passed the virus to you. Tis the season of viral transmission.” He loosely gestured at the snow falling outside the garage. A shiver ran down Roy’s spine as a gust of wind kicked a flurry up. Flakes landed just inside the garage door. “Come in where it’s warm.” Dick pressed a hand to his shoulder. “You can fix your bike later.”

“Hm.” Roy leaned into the touch, Dick was warm. “And how many times have I sneezed today, Boy Wonder?”

“Fourteen.” Dick laughed. “Old habits die hard.”

“Well,” Roy followed Dick in. “You wouldn’t be the same without them.”

Then

“I heard you’re not feeling well.” Mr. Jupiter called Roy to his office after dinner. Oh, Dick was such a little snitch. “I have doctors at your disposal, feel free to make use of them if you need.”

“Thanks, sir.” Roy pinched the bridge of his nose. “But I think a little bird got his wires crossed.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Jupiter relaxed in his chair. Roy gazed at the trinkets that lined his desk. There was a pendulum that traced patterns in sand as it swung back and forth. A Newton’s cradle ticked along at the other edge. He was a curious man. “Perhaps, but I’ve come to trust his intuition. He cares, albeit in his own way.” A weirdly intrusive know-it-all type way. He’d rather have Lilith’s random hunches. “Oh, and by the way, it was Lilith who brought it to my attention, she said your aura felt off.”

Now

Like clockwork he received a text at 12:02, while he laid on the couch with an untouched bowl of chicken soup. ‘Feel better soon’ Lilith said, with a little heart emoji at the end. “Did you text Lilith?” He called.

“Nope.” Dick flopped over the edge of the couch, stealing looks at Roy’s phone. “But if she can feel it, you’re really in it now.” He pressed the back of his hand to Roy’s forehead. “You’re hot.”

“I know.” Roy sighed dramatically. “It’s a shame my natural charms are wasted on being ill.” Dick flicked the side of his head, then messily ruffled his hair.

“Mm. Not wasted.” Dick pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You’ve got that worn out dad charm. You know. Bags under the eyes.” Roy held still as Dick traced his puffy skin. “Unshaved scratchy scruff.” Roy raised an eyebrow as Dick discreetly checked his lymph nodes, via running his hands along his scruff. “And those permanent forehead wrinkles.” Dick pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I don’t want you to get sick either.” He pushed Dick away, before Dick could catch his lips.

“I’ll have you know, I have a great immune system.” Dick pouted, leaning against the back of the couch. He kept one hand tangled in Roy’s hair. “Anyways at this point we slept in the same bed last night, so if I’m going to get infected the transmissions probably already occurred. I think that qualifies me to take care of you.” Roy gave up his protests as Dick walked around the couch and gently took his head in his lap. “So what are we watching, love?” He passed Roy the remote.

Then

Two bulbous bright eyes leaned over the bunk bed’s railing, stealing looks at him in the dead of night. “Dick.” Roy hissed. It was a crime Mr. Jupiter had let him mess around with experimental night vision lenses. “Go to bed.”

“Okay.” He heard the bed over him shift. He closed his eyes for five minutes, drifting closer to sleep, then felt that piercing stare again.

“Dick!” Roy hissed. Dick blinked back at him in the dim light. He dropped out of bed moments later, and before Roy knew what was happening there was a hand on his forehead. “Dude, chill!” He pushed Dick’s hand away. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing.” Dick’s breathing was off, and his tone had lost its usual pedantic measure of cold reason. “Just. What if it wasn’t just a cold? What if you got poisoned on the last mission when I wasn’t watching and you died in the middle of the night and I woke up and you were gone?” Roy swallowed, he hadn’t thought about that, but now that Dick mentioned it... “You sneezed twice at dinner.” Dick furiously fidgeted with the edge of his shirt. “And then again after you brushed your teeth. That’s about right for allergies or a cold, but in our line of work there’s so many things that can go wrong. I’m the leader, it would be my fault.”

“Dick. Seriously. I’m fine. Chill.” Roy wondered if he was trying to convince Dick or himself. He sat up in bed and patted the spot next to him. He racked his brain for a simpler explanation. “It’s probably just a cold, we were out in the rain last week, remember? On that mission to Sicily?” Dick scooted next to him, his bottom lip caught tightly between his teeth. They were practically adults, but the way the light caught his wide eyes, Dick looked sixteen years young, not sixteen years old. He tethered himself to the pulse point at Roy’s wrist.

“You haven’t experienced any other symptoms yet, have you?” Roy half expected Dick to pull out a flashlight and start checking his pupil dilation, or a tongue press and make him say ‘Ah’. “No rashes or swelling, or suspicious bruising?”

“Nope.” Roy casually popped the ‘p’. “I feel fine, Robbie. If I am coming down with something, it’s best if I get some beauty sleep.”

“Please.” Wally begged from the other set of bunk beds. “Go to bed before I turn into a pumpkin.”

“You’re mixing your fairytales.” Dick complained, but still slid off the edge of Roy’s bed. “Go to sleep, Twinkle Toes.” He didn’t take his eyes off of Roy. “I’m going to get you a glass of water in case you get thirsty. Fluids are important when you’re sick.” It took everything Roy had not to say he wasn’t sick, not that Dick would listen.

Now

Tissues piled high on the coffee table and Roy shivered despite being tucked underneath a pile of blankets. His shoulders ached, and the damaged nerves in his right arm prickled at the ends. He felt lousy, and when Dick offered ibuprofen, he took it without argument. One hand carded through his hair, and the other a steady weight over his chest, settled atop his heart, tracking that steady cadence. He must have dozed off at some point, because Gordon Ramsey’s yelling was gone, replaced by David Attenborough narrating about the wonderful world of birds. Roy curled away from the television, and burrowed himself deeper in the couch and Dick’s chest.

His movement didn’t go unnoticed. “Hmm.” Dick hummed. Attenborough’s narration quieted to a volume below a whisper. “How’re you feeling, lover boy?” The hand on his heart moved to rub small circles on his back.

“Peachy.” Roy replied. He felt bad, keeping Dick preoccupied like this, but it was nice while it lasted. “But you’re going to get sick staying here. Scurry off, you’ve got better stuff to do.”

“Eh.” The blanket had fallen back, and Dick pulled it back up around Roy’s shoulders. He made no move to get off the couch.

“Go on, Dickie, the Titan’s finances are waiting for you. I’ll be fine here.” Roy sat up, freeing Dick’s legs. Dick reluctantly got up, and leaned back, with his hands pressed against the small of his back. Roy heard it pop half a dozen times. He scooted to the edge of the couch, and leaned into the side. Dick sat back down, across from him on the coffee table, and fussed with the blanket around his shoulders. He passed Roy a thermometer and looked at him expectantly. “When’d you even grab that?”

“While you were snoozing.” Dick’s brow furrowed, and Roy bit his lip. Dick was cute when he was worried. “You missed Lian coming home.” Roy glanced at the clock - and shit, he hadn’t realized the time. “Lian, your dad’s up!” Dick called. A kitchen chair scooted back from the table, and little feet pounded on the floor. Lian rounded the corner and leaped over the sofa, with an absurd amount of grace.

“Oof!” Roy huffed, as Lian barreled into his side. She wasn’t as small as she used to be, and she gave very tight bear hugs.

“Are you feeling better?” Lian asked, with eyes the size of saucers. “I want to play horsey after dinner and Uncle Dick said if you’re feeling better then we could.”

“Did he now?” Dick looked around innocently behind Lian. Way to make him be the bad guy. “Sweetheart, if you don’t want to get sick, you’ll take shelter in your room. I’m germy.” He reached out with big hands. “Blegh!”

“Ew!” Lian squealed. She turned and saw the pile of tissues. “Gross! Ahhh!” Roy chased her back into the kitchen, then collapsed in a chair. Lian’s brow crinkled the same way Dick’s did when she was worried. “Are you okay?” She narrowed her eyes, and stared at Roy critically. He felt clammy and sore, but he wasn’t about to worry his kid over that. But he also didn’t want to lie.

“Not the best, kiddo.” He admitted. “But I’ll bet I’ll be better before you can finish that homework.” Lian opened her mouth to protest but Dick cut in.

“Don’t worry, I’m taking care of him.” The thermometer clicked as Dick sat it on the table in front of him. Dick locked eyes with him, message clear. But Roy refused to take the thermometer. He was fine, he didn’t need two children obsessing over his health. Dick blew in his eyes, then laughed as Roy flinched first.

“Cheater.” Roy complained. Fine. He put the thermometer in his mouth. “Happy?”

“You get so grumpy when you’re sick.” Dick cooed, taking the opportunity to mess with his hair. A beep interrupted them, and Dick took the thermometer back. “A hundred and two.” He frowned. “If it’s not down by tomorrow, I’m taking you to S.T.A.R.”

“I can take care of myself.” Lian rolled her eyes and Roy pretended not to see it.

“Yeah.” Dick smoothed out his hair, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.”

Then

Dick kept staring at him, through brushing their teeth, through breakfast, through their training exercises. “What is your deal?” Roy finally cornered him while washing up for lunch. Dick flicked water in his face in response. “Ack!” Roy flicked some back. “Be serious.”

“There is no deal and I’m always serious.” Dick replied smoothly, with a smug little grin. His eyes never wavered, watching Roy through the mirror. They were cool and calculating, and Roy felt like Dick could see straight through him. He was suddenly self conscious. “If you get sick it affects team performance. I don’t have a problem with you, Speedy.” Dick explained.

“Bullshit.” He’d never do anything to compromise the team. He thought Dick knew that - if he didn’t there was a problem between them bigger than whatever other weirdness that was going on. “I can take care of myself and the team gets along fine without me.” It wasn’t like they wanted him around half the time anyways.

Dick finished washing up and stepped aside. “Maybe, but it’s nice having you around.” He walked out before Roy could reply.

Donna took him aside after a lunch spent trading dirty looks with Dick after every time he sniffled or sneezed. “Don’t take it so personally, lover boy.” She squeezed his hands. “You know what kind of man he lives with, right?” She dropped his hand and poked two fingers above the back of her head. “I’m fine.” She mocked in her gruffest voice. “Don’t worry about me.” She pressed one hand to her forehead, then dainty fell into Roy’s arms. She fluttered her eyelids at him. “Oops I passed out from blood loss because I was too busy being manly to admit I was in pain.”

“Okay, okay.” He pushed Donna back up. “I just don’t get why he cares, I’m not so bad it’s affecting ‘team performance’ or whatever. We haven’t even been on a mission. I wouldn’t do that to you guys, I get he thinks poorly of me but I’m not stupid, Don.”

“Boys.” Donna muttered, barely loud enough for Roy to catch it.

“And,” Roy cut her off. “He’s a massive hypocrite, when’s the last time you saw him take a break for a cold.”

“Oh, last time I had to sit on him.” Donna laughed. “Don’t make me sit on you.”

“Is that a promise? Or a threat?” Roy teased, slipping his hand into hers.

Donna stuck out her tongue, but twirled around, spinning herself under Roy’s arm. “I’ll get Garth to sit on you.” She teased back. Roy wrinkled up his nose as Donna giggled.

Now

Roy let Dick lead him back to the couch, after he valiantly managed to stomach half a bowl of soup. “You have better things to do.” He repeated, when Dick sat down to snuggle with him again.

Dick squished his face. “Stop saying that. There is nothing more important than taking care of you. Do you understand me?” He nodded Roy’s head up and down and pitched up his voice. “Yes, Dick, I understand that I’m an important human being.” Dick sighed and dropped his face.

“I sound nothing like that.” Roy poked Dick’s side. “And this is your problem, you could be solving world hunger, but instead-” Dick put a hand over his mouth, so naturally Roy licked it. Dick did not move his hand. Roy did not stop licking.

“You’re not a waste of my time. Stop saying that, my love.” His brow was furrowed in all the wrong ways, and Roy’s heart skipped every other beat. “You’ve taken care of me so many times, let me do this for you.” Dick wiped his hand on Roy’s shirt. “I can’t solve world hunger, this the least I can do.”

“So you’re going to cuddle my virus away?” Roy was touched, so of course he deflected.

“Yep.” Dick squeezed him. “It’s about holistic care. Laughter is the best medicine and all that.” Dick wiggled his eyebrows mischievously. “I’ve got some puns I could dust off, but they might make you sneeze.”

“Your puns will be the death of me.” Roy groaned.

“What’s six feet more, when you’re already under the weather.” Dick cackled at his own joke, hunched over like a little gremlin.

“Noooo.” But Roy’s lips betrayed him and he cracked a smile. Dick’s smile was contagious. “Be nice, I’m sick.”

“Sick of deez nuts, got ‘im.” Roy cringed so hard, he rolled into the couch reflexively. “Too much?” Dick asked, poking the spot between his shoulder blades.

“Who taught you internet slang? Tim?” Roy was going to shake the kid silly the next time he saw him. “Do you kiss your Batman with that mouth?” He didn’t mind lewd humor, but from Dick it just felt so wrong.

“What, you going to wash it out with soap, mom?” Dick pried Roy out from the cushions. He lowered his voice so Lian couldn’t hear. “You didn’t have a problem with nuts in my mouth last-”

“Stop.” Roy threw a cushion at his face. Dick caught it and smacked him in the face, cackling like a mad man. “Yeah, this feels like holistic care.” Roy raised his arm in defense. Dick tickled his vulnerable sides. “Cut it out!” He squirmed out of Dick’s reach, but Dick dove after him. “This is why Lian calls you uncle.”

Then

When Roy finally did go to the doctor, he left his prescription bottle on the back of their shared bathroom sink, to prove to that smug bastard Dick Grayson that he was in fact, following medical advice.

Now

When Roy woke up the next morning, he felt much less achey. He placed the proof of his health, the thermometer, in that smug bastard Dick Grayson’s hands. Dick wasn’t always the best with words, but he could see the weight lift off of his shoulders, and the sheer relief in his eyes. We survived another day, was the unspoken motto of their household, because sometimes, just that felt like an insurmountable task.

Roy traced the bags under Dick’s eyes, some things never changed; Dick hadn’t slept at all while he was sick. He dragged Dick back to bed, and pulled him against his chest. “I love you.” Roy whispered, fingers sliding through Dick’s hair. Dick shyly smiled back, eyelids fluttering blearily. “Sleep well, my love, sweet dreams.”

#my fic #dick grayson #roy harper #dickroy #roydick #sickfic #nightwing #arsenal #I FINIALLY FINISHED MY BINGO HELL YEAH

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lokislytherin · 1 year

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writing danizoe friendship from zoe pov as part of valentines day multichapter fic and i'm giving myself feels 🥺😭

#the jay sickfic was also really nice to write ngl #i love lookism relationship studies #hell yeah i'm taking canon and embellishing it #zoe and joy are actually so much fun to write #joy is fun like haha! little sis gonna prank ya!#zoe is fun like. you and the guy you used to have a crush on but now you love him like a brother #danizoe friendship 🥺#daniel park #zoe park #zoe views daniel like a brother from a different mother and it's definitely not bc same surname ahahahha #no really tho #romantic danizoe is good and all but platonic danizoe hits so much harder #lookism

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musashi · 1 year

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hello for the ask thingy, i would die if you wrote something involving miles and franziska sick together as adults and somehow away from everyone else. i just want to see them miserable and snarky together. maybe in a hotel? on like a business thing. please i am begging

HUH NOW THAT I THINK ABOUT IT NONE OF MY SICKTEMBER FILLS FIT THIS LIKE IT'S ALWAYS JUST ONE OF THEM AND THE ONE I WROTE WHERE ITS BOTH OF THEM THEY R BABIES.......... shit i might actually file this away in my request doc

(before the year ends let me know what you wanna see me write next year!)

#wendy answers #linkswings #they have a few moments in the fic im writing now but #yeah everyone else is there fsdjkghsf #i should just write one where its only them #i did write that one miles sickfic where they were on a road trip for work it is very easy to get them alone #oh man adds it to the pile #but like toward the top #this is SO deliciously specific remember pals #if you are specific as hell in your prompts they WILL get written

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godfistgonnalive · 8 months

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chat im sick this is like a sickfic in real life except i have no one to take care of me so i will die now

#did i ever tell you guys how much i love sickfics #or just fics in which characters take care of another character #like.... hell yeah........#so awesome......#blergh i feel so odd #i hope i dont have to go to school tomorrow #fuckkkkkkkkkk i have a math test #ugh #UGH!#im so mad what the f #owls nonsense

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notjustjavierpena · 4 months

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Mouthful

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost

A/N: Made with the help from my loveliest @strang3lov3 with a talk about men conking out after cumming and how Hubby Javier still hasn’t gotten his dick sucked. So to all the girlies who want to give your fictional husband a blowjob, this one is for you.

Summary: Javier is starting to come down with the flu but he just simply won’t lie down to have some rest. You have a trick that never fails.

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader/You (No y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, husband!javier, domestic life, sickfic, Inés is a menace, Javier is a stubborn man, ❤️ JAVIER HAS A DAD BOD!!!!!!! ❤️, blowjob, deep-throating, mouth-fucking, praise, dirty talk, cum-swallowing,

Word count: 2.8k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52856839

Mouthful

You hear the clink of plates being lifted out of the dishwasher, the sound of Sebastian crying, stuttering sobs as he is bounced, and Inés going on about something that happened in preschool. Javier is barely listening, replying with half-sentences that seem to make his daughter more frustrated with her father not paying attention and eventually leading to her talking louder.

The idea of what will meet you in the kitchen is enough to make you want to flee to the bedroom, enough to make you want to pretend that you haven’t heard them during an extended nap. However, you could never bring yourself to let Javier go through the hell of late afternoons with children alone.

“Look who’s up,” he says with a desperate smile as you enter the room, twisting his whole body to make his crying son spot his mother. As soon as Sebastian’s eyes gaze upon you, his wails die down and they stop completely the moment you take him from Javier’s arms.

“Mom! Guess what happened today at school,” Inés interrupts just as you are about to say something. She speaks loudly, and you automatically reach up to cover Sebastian’s ear that isn’t pressed into your shoulder.

“Inés, indoor voices,” Javier finally manages to say, reaching up to rub his temples, “Shhh…”

“Sorry,” she makes a face, not completely convinced.

“What happened at school?” You ask but instead of looking at her, you find yourself staring at your husband who looks like absolute hell, glassy eyes and exhaustion radiating from him. Inés giggles as she tells a joke that isn’t really a joke, too lost in her story to notice that you aren’t really listening.

Javier places a hand on the kitchen table, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. His shirt is crumpled, his eyes have dark circles and you don’t actually think that he has even noticed that he is sniffling every other moment. He sighs deeply, breathing mostly through his mouth as he does it, and then goes back to emptying the dishwasher.

“Are you okay, honey?” You ask him, stopping midway to shush Inés who doesn’t look pleased, “You look under the weather. Are you feeling okay?”

There’s an almost offended nature in Javier’s reply. He doesn’t stop what he is doing, sorting through the cutlery, “What? No, yeah. Estoy bien, mi amor (I’m fine, my love). Just need to get this done.”

“And then what?” You ask with a raised eyebrow.

“And then I’ll get started on dinner,” he tells you with a tired smile that isn’t very convincing.

“You look like… m i e r d a (shit), and you probably feel it too. I was sick last week,” you spell out the dirty word, using the Spanish word because the English is short enough to make Inés guess what you are saying.

“Mom,” Inés predictably complains.

“I’m fine. I just need 20 minutes where no one comes near me,” he says with exasperation. He finishes up the bottom drawer of the dishwasher and goes to pull out the top one. You find yourself laying a hand on top of his, stopping him in his tracks.

“Javi,” you say softly.

“What?” He grumbles.

“I can finish up here. I’ll cook dinner,” you tread lightly, knowing that he hates being babied by you. Him not pulling his weight is a common fight that the two of you have had, and he probably feels on edge when you ask him not to help out with the kids.

“I can do it,” he snaps but suddenly sneezes, and it ends up making his nose prickle enough to cause his eyes to water.

“Go do something else, laundry maybe. I’ll do this,” you say a little more firmly, strategically sending him to your bedroom to make him spot your bed and have some well-earned rest, “It’s really not a problem, and you know I hate doing laundry anyway.”

“Fine,” he holds his hands up in surrender.

“I love you,” you say in a sing-song voice as he leaves the kitchen, “Go have your 20 minutes.”

Inés looks longingly after her father but you manage to distract her with a snack before she runs after him. You run your free hand over her hair as she eats a peanut butter sandwich, Sebastian cooing happily on your hip as he has been allowed to chew on a banana.

“Do you want to watch cartoons before dinner?” You ask, “Give Mommy some time to get things done in the kitchen, and then I can hear all about school while we eat?”

“Fine,” she parrots her dad, holding up her hands as well and running off to the living room. You follow her, setting Sebastian down in his playpen and turning on the baby monitor. Then you turn on the TV, adjust the volume, and let Inés busy herself by singing along to her favorite theme song.

You finish emptying the dishwasher, cut vegetables, and throw them into the slow cooker with other ingredients, and after you check on both of your kids, you realize there’s some spare time before you have to pick Lucas up from his play date.

You decide to go upstairs to do another round of laundry, but when you cannot find the laundry basket, you go to your bedroom. Javier must have taken it when folding clothes.

“Jesus, why are you not resting? I sent you here so you’d eventually nap,” you groan as you enter the bedroom and see Javier putting his shirts on hangers.

“I told you I’m fine,” he seems even more sick at this point, nose slightly congested and causing him to speak nasally, “I can do this.”

You walk up to him to yank a clothing hanger out of his hands and throw it onto the floor, receiving a glare in response. Javier doesn’t look pleased with your behavior, but you don’t find his stubborn attitude charming either.

“Javier F. Peña,” you tut, “Just go lie down and trust that your wife has everything under control. It’s what a lot of husbands do, you know.”

“Well, wife, I don’t need your permission to do housework,” he tries to push past you but you catch him in a disarming embrace, giggling as he tries bending down to pick you up so he can move you out of his way. You avoid his efforts, catching him by the wrists when he straightens once more, and push him back towards the bed.

“You need rest, husband,” you shove him when the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and he lets himself fall down into the mattress, bouncing slightly as it connects with his back.

“I don’t need a nap, I’m not a child,” he groans dramatically.

“Then stop acting like one,” you pull the baby monitor out of your pocket and place it on the nightstand. When Javier tries to sit up again, you snap your fingers and point at him, “Nuh-uh, lie down.”

It makes you realize that you need to use alternative methods to get him to obey; he simply won’t do as he has been told, and if anyone is ever in doubt about where Inés gets her stubbornness from, you’ll simply glance over at her father to answer the question.

“What if I treat you to something special?” You ask with a little smirk, moving to the end of the bed so you can proceed to crawl onto him. You sit on his legs, “Think that’ll make you relax?”

You already know the answer to that question. He looks ready to conk out.

“I’m actually fine, I don’t need—“

“I know, Javi,” you reply. Your fingers find his crumpled shirt and you pull it out of his jeans, shoving it up over his stomach so you can access his belt, watching your husband twitch underneath you at the sound of the buckle clinking as you undo it.

He lifts his head to watch as you tug down his jeans and underwear, “Just so you know, I’m not sleeping after this. I have to—“

“I know, Javi,” you repeat, bending down to nuzzle your nose against his soft stomach. His cock lays flaccid against his thigh, but you pull it out from underneath the waistband of his briefs to lay it against his tummy so you can skim your palm up and down the shaft. His soft cock slowly comes alive underneath your touch, and soon you can wrap your fist around him to stroke him till he stands completely erect.

Below you, Javier groans when you press a kiss to his belly, “And I have to get the laundry done.”

“Whatever you say, baby, let me take care of you and I’ll let you do as much laundry as you want,” you hum against his skin, relishing in his warmth and his so-called dad-body - the last year has blessed you with Javier getting a little softer to the touch - that you nuzzle up to at every opportunity you get.

Javier isn’t a fan of himself growing soft around the middle but you savor it every time you get to see that bit of pudge strain against his usual jeans (which he refuses to buy in a bigger size). If you thought he was gorgeous when his muscles were toned and his body looked younger, you had not been prepared for how good he looks now that he is older, rounder, and getting comfortable. His arms are still deliciously strong; an overwhelmingly sexy result of still carrying Inés around everywhere, picking her up from the ground if she has a tantrum at the grocery store.

“God, you’re so sexy,” you pinch his stomach to earn a little noise. Javier says your name in disapproval but you just look up at him with a smile, grabbing more of his pudge before biting into it and kissing it afterward, “Let your wife have her fun.”

Javier is just about to say something - you don’t know whether it is about his body, the lack of a blowjob, or laundry once more - but you know it’s more complaining and so you cut him off by running the flat of your tongue from base to tip of his cock. He tastes like salt. If you had the time, you would not finish until his scent and taste were everywhere on you. In your clothes, etched into your skin, and on your tongue.

“Oh shi—“ he gasps, resting the back of his head on the mattress once more. He breathes deeply in through his mouth, nose still stuffed, and stares at the ceiling as you work your tongue up and down his shaft only to follow the wet trail with your nose.

When you reach his cockhead a third time, you suckle on the very tip to rid him of the pearl of precome that has accumulated at the slit and is threatening to slide down (you want to treat yourself to it before it does). Above you, Javier moans at feeling your mouth, not your tongue, properly for the first time.

“Fucking hell, baby, gotta admit that I didn’t see this coming,” he half-chuckles, half-groans.

“Maybe I just wanted to shut you up for a moment. You are stubborn, you know,” you pull back to talk, look up at him, and nuzzle needily at his cock. He looks down at you but you simply smile, “I looove you for that though, not annoying at all.”

You follow your little snarky remark up with a press of your lips to the underside of his shaft, using a hot open-mouthed kiss to cut off whatever offense he might take from your teasing. He doesn’t even seem to register it after feeling your mouth on himself again.

Then you let saliva gather in your mouth before spitting directly onto the head, using your hand to smear it down his length by stroking him a few times. You lean over him and bring your mouth down over his girth, no teasing or anything, until the thick head hits the back of your mouth.

“Fuuuck, and then up again,” he groans, a strong hand reaching for whatever he can grab of you. His fingers curl around your shoulder, moving inwards until they dig into the back of your neck. Slowly, you drag your lips all the way off of him again.

Javier makes a sound when you pull off but it quickly turns into a whimper as you let more saliva drip down. You smear this too, swirling your sinful tongue around the tip and occasionally licking like were you eating a popsicle on a summer’s day.

You can feel him pulse against your lips, so you show mercy and let him into your mouth again. He is hot and heavy on your tongue and a moaning mess above you, nails starting to dig into your skin.

You start bobbing your head, hand on the base of Javier’s cock to hold his generous size in place. When he bumps against your throat for the first time and thus makes you gag the first time, he lets out a sound that you can never get enough of and it causes your cunt to throb between your legs.

“Who would think that a pretty girl sucks cock like that? Oh, fuck… I love you, just like that—” he talks in a way that makes you think he might not even be aware of what he is saying but is simply letting his mouth run, “Suck that cock, baby. Good fucking girl, married the right one, didn’t I?”

You hum in reply and he growls at the vibrations of your voice. The pride you feel is indescribable, and so you seek out his approval once again by moaning as you taste him. Even if it results in your eyelashes dampening from Javier pushing his hips upwards, you lean further down and force yourself to relax your throat.

He slides into the tight space at the back of your throat and his hand flies to the top of your head. He fists your hair desperately when you gulp around him and make your throat spasm, tugging at your follicles to the point where tears slide down your face. Soon, they also mix with the spit coating his cock.

You swallow around him again. Javier holds your head with both hands now, “Can I - Christ - can I fuck this gorgeous mouth? Por favor (please), baby.”

Even if it is hurting a little, you nod the best you can because Javier’s groan as he starts thrusting his hips upward is worth any ache in your body. Your thighs flutter, your clit pulses.

Both his hands gather your hair in a makeshift ponytail. He uses it to move your head as he pleases, makes you bob on his dick until you gag wetly with every other thrust of his hips. Every time he bucks his hips, his thigh muscles flex and your nose buries itself in his happy trail.

“You gonna take it?” He rasps, chest heaving. He is nearly there, muscles in his whole body twitching as he slowly loses control over himself when pleasure is so close. The next thrusts are maddening and you can’t blink any tears away even if you tried, “Fuck, swallow, baby. Take my come.”

You look up at him through your wet lashes and hum a mhm, confirming. Yes, yes, yes, give it to me.

You know he is peaking when his breath stops. He holds it during the last thrusts, finally letting out a loud moan as he finishes and sucks in a deep breath afterward.

His cock spurts in the next moment. You can feel it hit the back of your sore throat, warm and salty, in several pulses and automatically, you swallow hungrily around his girth. The action makes him groan weakly and his hips stutter until he finally needs to let go of you. His arms lie flat along his side.

“Holy fuck, baby,” he sighs contentedly when you pull off, “Fuck, I don’t even know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything, Daddy,” you tease, and then you treat the sensitive head of his cock to a few innocent kitten-licks, essentially cleaning him up until he softens.

He whimpers when it becomes too much, and so you pull off to kiss him along his stomach. You can hear his breathing changing, turning into something less erratic.

“You okay?” You eventually ask but receive no reply. You look up.

As predicted, Javier snores. You smile to yourself as you push yourself away from him, careful not to wake him up as you pull his briefs and jeans up again, leaving the latter unbuttoned.

“Javier Peña, the most stubborn man on the planet has a weakness,” you whisper and shake your head with a fond smile.

You grab the baby monitor from the nightstand and leave him to sleep, knowing he’ll wake up feeling a lot more sick and, hopefully, a lot more cooperative. You bring him a glass of water and some Tylenol to wake up to, write a note for him about how much you adore him, and that you’ll take care of everything. He needs it.

FOLLOW @notjustjavierpena-fics AND TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS 💖❤️💖❤️

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whiskey-tango-matcha · 2 months

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Hard to Shake (M, cold)

Woof, that was too long of a hiatus. I'm back with some Greyson sickfic! In this, Greyson has a one night stand and ends up 'running into' his hookup in a not-so-stellar way. This was a fun write, I'm feeling a little rusty after taking a couple months off writing but I hope you all like it. Please let me know what ya think, good, bad or indifferent! :)

CW: M snz, colds, contagion, coughing, some M/M romance but nothing above PG-13 lol. 5k words (it's a slow burn, shocker, I know)

Hard to Shake

The club was dark, humid, and loud as fuck - just the way he liked it.

“I’ll get us drinks,” Matt said, disappearing into the crowd to push towards the bar without waiting on Greyson’s response. Not that he would have stopped his counterpart; Matt had a boyfriend waiting for him at the end of this black hole of a night. Greyson, alternatively, was on the prowl for a bed, and someone to share it with.

They had begun the night at two pm, just an hour after brunch ended, since the only way to get a proper buzz on a Sunday was to start early as hell. Elijah had closed the restaurant early – “We’ve had ten guests all day. It’s too damn hot for brunch, and I want to go home” – and Mark was currently on a plane home from England after a week spent with family; it was like the universe was begging them to go out.

The restaurant’s reservations had been capped at a tiny number the next two days to prepare for their food writer dinner on Wednesday, and Greyson was so nervous about this career-shaping dinner that he could barely keep himself from lapsing into panic attacks at the slightest provocation; it was Matt who insisted on the bender.

“We haven’t gone on a good one since Mark and I got together,” the sous chef had said after service. “And you need a drink, you're acting like a psycho.”

Greyson, never one to deny himself a good binge drink, had taken the bait and allowed himself to be paraded through the city for the rest of the day. Now, at eleven pm and with Mark back at his and Matt's place safe and sound, Greyson could feel the night coming to a close. Time to round it out with a good old-fashioned one-night-stand.

Without waiting for Matt to return with the drinks, Greyson sashayed onto the dance floor and began grinding on whoever seemed the most into it – he ground on a group of drunk men, twirled between two gorgeous women who laughed giddily through the song, and put his tongue into so many people’s mouths that he lost count. Of course it was fun; it always was. But the hunt for a bed partner had proven, thus far, unsuccessful.

“There you are,” Matt slurred, coming up behind his boss and shoving a whiskey into his hand. “Why do you always run off? I’m about three seconds away from getting you one of those toddler-leash backpacks.”

“Makin’ friends, Matty boy,” Greyson said, chugging his drink and slamming the glass onto the closest table he could find. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of goin’ home to a warm, naked man in our bed.” Greyson elbowed Matt playfully and the younger man rolled his eyes.

“Fair ‘nough,” he said, sipping his drink. “Hey, actually, I saw someone who was exactly your type back near the bar. Talkin’ about food and everything.” Greyson raised his eyebrows, intrigued, and Matt looped his arm into his boss’s and led him back towards the horseshoe-shaped bar. “Let’s see if we can’t get you fucked to sleep.”

Matt pushed the two of them through the crowd, his head on a swivel, until finally he spotted the man he’d been talking about. “There he is,” Matt said, pushing Greyson towards the bar. “Do your thing.”

The sous hadn’t lied; this man was quintessential Greyson’s type. Shorter than his six-foot-three-inches by about half a foot, perfect skin, hair coiffed in a way that just smelled of total pretentious douchebag, and a full blazer and dress pants at the club. Oh yeah, Greyson thought, pulling the elastic out of his sandy curls and shaking them to fall around his shoulders, there’s the rest of my evening.

“Hi,” Greyson said, pushing himself in front of whoever the guy had been talking to before. “Can I buy you a drink?”

***

In his defense, he hadn't known the condition of the man he'd left with until they got to his apartment. The club had been dark; he could barely hear the sound of his own voice, let alone the wheeze of someone else’s. And he’d been really, really drunk.

“Hh-! EISHH-oo! ISHH-oo!” The man – Reed, Greyson had learned his name was – curled into his elbow to sneeze as he pushed open the door to his apartment. “Shit, pardon mbe,” he muttered, clearing his throat and beckoning Greyson in. The chef, blasted as he was, simply ignored Reed’s constant sneezing.

“Now, where were we?” Greyson purred, pawing the back of Reed’s head and pulling it into his own. The two stood in the entry of Reed’s apartment – a truly incredible fifteenth-story one-bedroom in the Upper East Side with its own doorman – making out until Reed had to pull away to catch his breath.

“Shit,” he said again, panting, “sorry. Thought the worst of this fuckin’ cold was behind mbe but – ISHHOO! Snrf. Apparently ndot.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and cringed. “I understand if you don’t want to stay,” he said, giving Greyson an apologetic look.

Greyson remained unfettered. “Reed,” he said, taking a step back towards the other man. “Stop talking. And get in bed.”

Reed’s face colored. He opened his mouth to say something, but Greyson cut him off with another kiss.

“What did I just say?” Greyson asked, taking off his t-shirt and unbuttoning Reed’s expensive-looking button down. “Get in the bed -” - he yanked the shirt off the smaller man and licked him, navel to collar bone, prompting a moan - “- and let me take care of you.”

To his credit, Reed did as he was told. He did as he was told all night long.

***

“Lij, I don’t want to alarm you.”

“Greyson, I don’t want to hear it. Zip it. I’m being so serious right now.”

“I don’t want to alarm you,” Greyson repeated, slamming the rest of the bottle of Pedialyte and holding onto the prep table as if for dear life, “but I think I may be dying. I think I may need you to call me an ambulance.”

Elijah swung his chair around and strode towards the chef. He took the sunglasses Greyson had placed on his face the moment he walked inside the bright kitchen and tossed them across the room. He regarded the chef with an annoyance usually reserved for parents of crying toddlers at Disneyland.

“Your drinking antics, Grey, are what most people would describe as ‘a you problem’. You decide to get unreasonably wasted and then come in to prep one of the biggest dinners of your career? That’s a you problem. I don’t want to hear it. The only thing I want to hear is your knife going into and out of different types of food.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to hear about the incredibly hot guy I hooked up with last night?” Greyson asked, a smile blooming at his lips. Elijah, despite himself, felt his eyebrows raise halfway up his face.

“But you haven’t slept with anyone in months,” he said, annoyed at himself for taking the bait but too curious to stop himself from saying anything. “I thought you were on a self-imposed time-out?”

Greyson shrugged, pushed his hair into a bun at the top of his head, and secured it with an elastic. “I was,” he said. “But - and you’re not going to believe this, but it’s true – I am finally feeling… I dunno. Healed?”

“Healed?” Elijah asked, snorting. “I think you’ve been taking too many hot yoga classes. Like, spiritually healed?”

Greyson tipped his head back and forth, considering. “Kind of,” he said. “Like… ready. Moved on from Collin. Prepared to get back out there for real, not in a self-punishing way.”

Elijah whistled, long and low. “Wow,” he said, patting Greyson’s back. “Well, congrats, man. A little over a year and you’re finally back on your feet. That’s actually quite impressive.”

“Thanks,” Greyson laughed, shoving Elijah playfully. “I was also really drunk and you know nothing stops drunk-Greyson when he decides he’s going to sleep with someone.”

“There it is,” Elijah said, rolling his eyes and laughing. “So… tell me about him. Did you get his name?”

Greyson dead-panned his boss as he pulled knives out of his bag and cracked his neck. “Yes, I got his name, Elijah. That’s what healed people do, they get people’s names before sleeping with them, and I am, as previously stated, healed.”

Elijah flipped the chef off lazily, non-committal. “Well, out with it then,” he said. “What’s his name? Tell me about the night.”

“His name is Reed Parker, and we fucked til the sun came out,” Greyson said simply, laughing at his own gregariousness. He looked up when he realized that Elijah wasn’t laughing – in fact, his face had gone stark-white. “What?”

“Reed Parker?” Elijah asked, pulling out his phone. “You’re sure that’s his name?”

“Umm, according to him at least, yeah,” Greyson said, unwrapping a pan with a cleaned striploin in it. “Why, do you know him?”

“No,” Elijah said, pushing his phone towards Greyson. “But if that’s him, we’re going to know him in two days.”

Greyson looked down at the phone and felt the wave of nausea he’d been holding back all morning wash over him – oh. Oh, no.

Pulled up on Elijah’s phone was an Instagram post from The Foodie Society – a group of well-acclaimed food critics and writers in the city. The group that was hosting a dinner at Elliot’s in two days. The group that would likely be the deciding factor in whether Greyson got nominated for a James Beard award this year.

We are so excited to announce Reed Parker, writer of the extremely popular food blog, ‘Eat Like You Mean It’, as our newest Foodie Society member! Reed has been a prolific writer and food critic in the city for nearly five years, and we are so delighted to have him aboard. Can’t wait to collaborate with you, Reed!

Above the blurb was a photo of – undoubtedly – the man that Greyson had slept with the night before. He looked markedly healthier in the photo, and his hair was a little longer, but there wasn’t any was it wasn’t him. Greyson swallowed hard.

“Oh… shit,” Greyson muttered, lowering himself to the floor. “Oh, no.”

“Maybe he was drunk, too?” Elijah said, the panic clear in his voice. “Maybe he won’t remember?” Elijah kneeled down next to Greyson, trying to console him. “Hey, Grey, it’s alright. Obviously you guys didn’t know who the other one was. It’s not like he’s going to think you slept with him to get the nomination. It was just drunk sex. Right?”

“He gave me an out,” Greyson muttered, shaking his head. He looked up at Elijah, eyes wild. “Maybe he did know, or maybe he figured it out on the walk back to his place, because he gave me a fuckin’ out.”

“What do you mean?” Elijah asked, pulling Greyson back to his feet. The chef stood, but placed his head in his hands and his elbows on the prep table, as if to steady himself.

“He was getting over some sort of sickness, and he said he’d understand if I didn’t want to stay. He basically told me to get out and I just… fuck. I told him I didn’t care, and I stayed the night. Shit. I’m never going to get nominated now. There’s no fucking way.” Greyson rubbed both hands down his face and shook his head in disbelief. “I fucked myself.”

“Greyson,” Elijah said, taking his friend’s chin and lifting it so their eyes met. “You didn’t fuck yourself. Okay? He didn’t know it was you. It was a mistake, and also he’s brand new there, it’s not like he’s THE deciding factor. Just – wait, did you say he was sick?”

Greyson, his chin still in Elijah’s fingers, looked away from his boss with just his eyes. “Uhh… I mean, yeah, kind of, I guess. He had some sort of cold, I think.”

“You purposely slept with someone who was sick three days before this huge dinner?”

“Umm… did I mention I was really drunk?”

Elijah sighed loudly and threw his hands in the air. “Never a dull fuckin’ moment with you, is there?” he mumbled, storming into the office and pillaging through their medicine cabinet. He returned a moment later with Emergen-C and Airborne in his hands. “Take those.”

“Yes, sir,” Greyson muttered, pulling them to his side of the table. “Sorry.”

“I think it’s crazy that out of all the millions of people you probably saw yesterday, the one you just so happened to pick is a food writer who could decide your future fate who also had a fucking cold. There wasn’t a single other person in the city you could sleep with?”

“Apparently not,” Greyson muttered, pouring Emergen-C into his water bottle. Elijah took a deep breath before continuing.

“Let’s just… let’s try to get through the next couple days,” he said, heading back to the office. “I am glad you want to get back out there,” he continued from afar, “just maybe give them a cursory Google before you bang them next time. Okay?”

Greyson, completely deflated, just nodded. He swallowed and thought he could already feel a twinge of a sore throat, which would just figure. His dick had sealed his fate. Fuck.

***

Tuesday, May 12

NEW MESSAGE

Matt

3:53pm

r u almost back??? idk how much longer I can handle them at each others throats.

Mark

3:58pm

On my way back now! Are they at each other’s throats again?? I thought they were over it..

Matt

3:59pm

has elijah ever REALLY been over smthn..? & greyson’s going down fast af so hes pissy.

Mark

4:02pm

It seemed like he was in the downward slide when I left...ugh. ok, I’ll be back in 15!

“We are ndot,” Greyson said from behind his sous chef, “at each other’s throats.”

Matt jumped at the sound of his boss’s voice and quickly clicked his phone screen off. “Don’t read my private texts, Chef, that’s rude.”

Greyson shrugged and pulled a tissue out of the box on the desk next to Matt. “Don’t talk shit about your boss and you don’t have to worry about mbe being ruuhh – huh! Hh...IGTSZHH-ue! Hh-NTSHZH-ue!” Greyson crumpled into the jacket he’d pulled over his chef’s coat to sneeze. His hair fell over his face, blocking the grimace he hid as he sucked in through his nose.

“Bless you, moron,” Elijah called from the dining room. Greyson rolled his eyes so hard he felt it splinter in his head. Matt winced when he saw Greyson shudder with pain, and stood from the desk.

“The prep sheets for tomorrow are all written, Chef, tell me how I can help you,” he said, guiding Greyson into the chair. Greyson allowed himself to be sat down, despite his better judgment.

“I feel pretty good about -”

“You feel pretty good? Is that a joke?” Elijah asked, pushing through the swinging kitchen doors and leaning on the office door frame. Greyson gave his boss the dirtiest look he could muster and turned back to Matt without a word to his boss.

“I feel confident about the first three courses for tomborrow’s dinner, but the steak and dessert I feel like we’re way behind. Plus I have ndo idea how the guys are looking for service tondight, so pick which one of those you’d rather tackle and I’ll – hhuh! Hh...HUHESTZHH-ue! Fuck, snrf.” Greyson grabbed another tissue and blew his nose before finishing. “I’ll do the other onde.”

Matt nodded while Elijah stood wordlessly in the doorway. “I’ll get with the guys and help them with tonight, make sure it goes smooth,” he said. Greyson nodded back and his sous looked away and scurried towards the line. Elijah, in stark contrast, pushed past Greyson and sat at the other end of their shared desk, unwilling to look away from the mess that was the executive chef.

“How ya feeling?” he asked finally. Greyson pulled another tissue out of the box just in time.

“HRTSHH-ue!” he sneezed into the tissue and let a tickling flurry of coughs escape as well. Elijah sighed, looked into the kitchen, and reached past Greyson to shut the door to their office.

“How are you feeling,” he asked again. “Seriously.”

Greyson sighed wheezily and pulled a hand down his face. “Honestly?” he said, looking Elijah in the eye, “like fuckin’ shit.”

Elijah sighed as well. “You seemed okay when you came in this morning,” he said, as though it mattered.

“I felt okay this mborning,” Greyson admitted. “I mean, I felt like it was coming but I definitely didn’t feel this… shitty.” He shrugged. “It just… I don’t kndow. Hit mbe out of nowhere.”

Elijah nodded. “I mean, if you want to leave so you’re good for tomorrow, you know I’ll understand.” Greyson just scoffed.

“I have so mbuch shit to do before tomborrow,” he said, sucking in through his nose and coughing again. “There’s ndo way in hell.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, until Elijah sighed. “Fuck, Greyson. I’m really sorry.” He looked up at his friend, the true pity evident on his face. “I know how important this dinner is to you. It’s still going to be great, okay? If you need to par it down, do it. It’s not like they know what’s on the menu til tomorrow. I’m cutting off reservations tonight so you can go home early, okay? We’re going to make this work.”

Greyson had to set his jaw to keep from tearing up. “It’s mby own damn fault,” he said. “Ndo need to baby mbe – hh...HTSHH-ue! HRTSHH! NTSHH! Huh! Huhhh-ETSZHHH-uee!” Greyson collapsed into his own lap, lapsed into coughs again. Elijah handed him a water bottle, which he took the cap off of while wiping his nose with the other hand.

“Can we go back to you being a dick to mbe?” Greyson asked, his voice rough. “That I can handle.”

Elijah pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “Sure, Chef. Get your lazy ass up and start prepping,” he joked, pushing Greyson’s arm lightly. “Sitting is for the weak.”

Greyson smirked, an attempt at a laugh that wouldn’t make him cough. “Thanks, Lij,” he said. “Let’s get this stupid fuckigg show on the road.”

***

Course One

Compressed Cantaloupe

tarragon | smoked sea salt | brown butter crumble

Reed sat in the cushy, velvet chair and attempted to make himself comfortable. He hoped beyond hope that this dinner would go as quickly as humanly possible.

After their little rendevouz at the club, of course Reed had looked Greyson up; in this day and age, who wouldn’t look up their previous night’s partner, if only to make sure they weren’t some sort of psycho killer. And after he looked him up, of course he realized that oh. It was that Greyson Abbott. The same one whose food he was about to be poised in front of. The one who he and his fellow writers gathered around this table were tasked with deciding whether or not he was worthy of a Beard nod.

Of course.

Reed shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. The other writers had started talking immediately and, this being his first dinner with them, he was feeling awkward and left out. He really could have used the distraction of talking about their craft, but apparently he would have to earn a word tossed in his direction. This was going to be a long evening.

At least the restaurant is beautiful, Reed thought to himself. He’d never been to Elliot’s before, and now he was kicking himself for it. The wrap-around bar, the view of the park, the chandeliers… everything was gorgeous. He just wished he wasn’t here with these people, under the circumstance that his fling was in the kitchen plating up. That put a bit of a damper on things.

“Good evening,” a husky voice came from the head of the table, and Reed whipped his head to see a gorgeous plate of food placed in front of him, and the absolute god of a man he’d slept with a few days before standing just feet from him. Reed swallowed hard.

“I’mb Greyson,” Greyson said, and Reed immediately clocked the congestion in his voice. So you did give him that cold. Asshole, Reed chided himself. Greyson attempted to clear his throat before continuing.

“If you’ll excuse mby voice, I’mb at the tail end of a cold,” he continued, and Reed felt his face flame. Tail end, he thought. Yeah, sure.

“Our first course is compressed cantaloupe,” Greyson said. “I hope you enjoy. Pardon mbe, I have to get back to screaming at mby cooks.”

The group laughed in earnest as the chef walked away. Reed, too embarrassed to even look at the other writers, just picked up his fork and gathered a bite on it. He stuck it in his mouth and closed his eyes.

Christ, Reed thought, he cooks as well as he fucks.

Course Two

Hamachi

yuzu pearls | grapefruit | coconut crème

“I swear to God, Mbatt, what is goigg on?” Greyson yelled the moment he walked back into the kitchen. “We’re already behind, and none of the hamachi is on the plates yet? Can we please get it the fuck together che – ehh! HhITSZHH-uh! HRITSZHH-ue!”

Greyson yanked his chef’s coat over his nose and mouth and ducked away from the plates. The cooks called, “Bless, Chef,” and Elijah came up behind him with Sudafed – “The good shit, from behind the pharmacist counter,” he’d promised Greyson earlier, when he made an emergency trip to Walgreens for medicine – and popped two into his hand.

“I just took two,” Greyson croaked, sucking in through his nose.

“Well, it sounds like they’ve already worn off,” Elijah countered. Greyson swallowed the pills and coughed. “Is he out there?”

“Of course he’s out there, Lij, did you think he’d cancel because of mbe?” Greyson said, washing his hands and heading towards the pass to place hamachi on plates. “Like you said, hopefully he doesn’t remember.”

“Hard to forget a giant, loud, blonde buffoon who’s sporting the cold you just got over,” Elijah murmured, and Greyson flipped him off. “Just saying,” Elijah said.

“I don’t have timbe to think about him,” Greyson said, swallowing painfully. “I can’t think about anything but this.”

Elijah nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Let me jump in with the pearls.”

Course Three

Lamb Lollipop

harissa | mint chutney | bbq ‘chip’

“Pretty incredible, right?”

These were the first words uttered to Reed all night, said moments after the third course was placed in front of him and seconds after Greyson disappeared back into the kitchen. Reed could see him dip into an elbow to sneeze before he made it back to the kitchen. He cringed; poor guy. This was all his fault.

“Reed?”

The writer who’d spoken to him waved a hand in front of his face to snap him out of his stupor. Reed pulled his head back to the table and smiled. “Really incredible,” he said. “I mean, this guy has talent.”

“For sure,” the other writer said. “I mean, he’s been hoping for a Beard nod for years.”

“Yeah?” Reed asked, hungry for any bit of lore he could get about Greyson. The other writer dug into his lamb as he nodded.

“About five years,” he said. “The menu is deemed as one of the best in the city, and he changes it every single day. I mean, the guy’s an animal.”

Reed nodded slowly. He could only imagine how hard Greyson had worked, how nervous he was, especially with Reed's stupid ass sitting here to judge him. Especially when Greyson was sick as a dog.

“That he is,” Reed said, and he took another incredible bite.

Course Four

Rutabaga Tart

fennel | feta | cured egg yolk

“Matt can put these on the plates, Chef,” Elijah said, putting a hand on Greyson’s back. “Take a quick break before you have to talk to them again. Drink some water. Blow your nose.”

Greyson shook his head, pushed the flop sweat off his forehead. “This is mby shot. These are mby plates,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “I’mb here until the end.”

Elijah pressed his lips together and flashed Matt a look. The sous chef just raised his eyebrows and gave a little shrug. Once Greyson was like this… well, there was certainly no arguing with him.

“Okay,” Elijah said. “I’ll make you some tea, then.”

“Thank you, Lij,” Greyson managed, before ducking under the pass to sneeze into the collar of his chef’s coat. “God, fuck, I’mb gonna have to throw this thing away after this.”

“More like burn it,” Matt countered, prompting the first laugh from Greyson all evening.

“Burn it is right,” Greyson said. “HHITSZHH-ue!”

Course Five

Striploin

deconstructed bearnaise | white asparagus | duxelle

The fifth course was placed in front of them, and the writers looked up expectantly at Greyson.

“Forgive mbe,” Greyson said, his voice strained to a whisper. “I’ve yelled mbyself out in the kitchen, so mby number-two will introduce your last two courses.”

The writers tutted or laughed and looked over towards the sous chef – everyone except Reed. Reed was staring at Greyson, hoping he could hear his thoughts. I’m sorry you’re sick. I’m sorry I’m here. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

The sous finished the description and the writers began to eat once again. Reed was sure he could hear the younger chef say to Greyson, “Just one more, Chef,” as they walked back to the kitchen.

Reed sighed and took a bite of his steak. He closed his eyes; perfection.

He did not deserve to be here.

Course Six

Matcha Milk Bombe

coffee | pastry crumb

Greyson placed the final pastry onto the final plate and turned away to cough as the servers brought his final plate of food to the critics. He felt like he was attending his own funeral.

“I don’t think I can go out there again, Lij,” Greyson said, shaking his head and crouching down on the ground. “I can’t look at all of themb, I’ve embarrassed myself enough.”

“You haven’t embarrassed yourself at all, Grey,” Elijah promised, pushing Greyson’s sweaty hair out of his face. “But I understand if you’re too exhausted. I’ll go out for the last one, thank them all for being here.”

“Please,” Greyson said. Elijah nodded, stood, and left the kitchen to meet the writers, while Matt nodded towards the office.

“Go,” he said to his boss. “Sit. You did it.”

Greyson shook his head. “Gotta clean mbyself up first,” he said, standing and moving towards the kitchen doors. “I’mb using the damn guest bathroom, fuck those pretentious assholes.”

Matt laughed in earnest. “You’ve earned it for sure, Chef.”

Greyson slipped into the guest bathroom, hoping no one saw him, and locked himself in a stall. Finally, he sat down and let himself go.

“HITSHH-ue!” Greyson sneezed into the open, then quickly grabbed a handful of toilet paper to keep from becoming the restaurant’s biggest biohazard. “HTTSHH! IIITZSCHUE! Huh! Hh…. huh, huhhh… huhhETSZHHH-ue! Huh! HRRRSHHH! Fuuuck mbe.” Greyson blew his nose, beyond exhaustion. He felt like shit. He knew he looked like shit. He’d put out shit food, he’d been in a shit mood… this whole thing was just… shit.

Finally, feeling a little more cleared out, Greyson flushed the toilet paper and unlocked the stall. When he exited, he nearly jumped out of his skin. There, in the doorway, was his fling - Reed.

“Jesus,” Greyson said, placing a hand on his chest. “Give a guy a fuckin’ heart attack.”

Reed shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, then let Greyson by to wash his hands. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to scare you. Bless you. By the way.”

Greyson huffed out a laugh. “Thangks,” he said, drying his hands. “Sombe cold you’re passing around town. Shouldn’t you be finishing your meal? Or was it so bad you’re here to hock it back up?”

“It was incredible,” Reed said earnestly. “Truly, Greyson. Thank you. I… I’m sorry. For being here, for getting you sick, I – I didn’t know that this place was… um… yours.”

“Mmm, more Elijah’s than mbine,” Greyson mumbled, looking away from Reed’s face. “But, uh… thank you. Glad you enjoyed. Hopefully it's ndot for nothing.”

"I don't think it will be. They all had nothing but good things to say. I'm just the grunt, but I mean...you have my vote. You're... You're incredible," Reed said, the words escaping his mouth before he could even consider what he was saying.

Greyson tried to hide a small smile by looking down. They both stood awkwardly until Greyson cleared his throat. “I, uh… better get back to mby guys,” he said, starting towards the door.

“I had an amazing time the other night,” Reed blurted out suddenly. “I, um… I haven’t stopped thinking about it, actually.”

Greyson smirked, the tension finally broken. “Yeah?” he asked. Reed nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “You’re… you’re hard to shake.”

Greyson took a step closer to Reed, looking him in the eye now. He sniffled, rubbed his nose, and crossed his arms, a smile dancing on his lips. “Who are you, Reed Parker?” he asked. Reed’s face flushed bright red.

“I – I don’t know what you mean. I’m a food writer.”

“Mmm,” Greyson nodded. “Well, Reed the food writer who can’t get mbe out of his mind, at the moment I’m a bit, uh… incapacitated. But,” Greyson pulled a Sharpie out of his coat’s side pocket and grabbed Reed’s hand, “if I’m still rattling around in your brain in a few days… give mbe a call.” Greyson coughed into his shoulder, capped the Sharpie, and gave Reed a little smile.

“I will,” Reed said, biting his cheek. “Thank you. For, um… dinner.”

Greyson paused, thinking, then took a bold step towards Reed, grabbed his chin in his hand, and planted a deep kiss on his lips. “It was my pleasure,” he said, and stepped out of the room.

Reed stood, flushed and breathless, for a moment. The kiss sat, swelling his lips, sweeter than any dessert he’d ever had; he looked at the number on his hand, felt his heart catch in his throat.

Greyson Abbott, he thought, looking towards the bathroom door. Holy shit.

#whiskeyswriting #snz #sickfic #snzfic #coldfic #snzblr #snez #male cold #male snz #ooo we have a new character hope you guys are into him bc i have ideas lol #im not a huge fan of the first part of this story but i really like the ending. whatever its fine #we're going with it. idk. i want to post it ive been looking at it for 8 hours so into the ether it goes #happy to be back :)

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monarchthefirst · 7 months

Text

stubborn whumpee/sickfic asmr

Caretaker stood at the bedroom door with the tray. They lifted a hand to knock, but hesitated and blew a long breath.

Whumpee had not been cooperating. True, they pretty much NEVER cooperated with anyone in any situation, but add that to them being injured, feverish, and cranky and one ended up with a near insurmountable situation on their hands.

But Caretaker was stubborn too. And Whumpee was sick. In any case, the odds were in Caretaker’s favor. They rapped firmly on the door with their knuckles. “Whumpee? It’s me, Caretaker. Can I come in?” They loved the irascible creature too much to let them starve anyways.

“Go away.” The voice was muffled and weak, but clearly annoyed.

Caretaker rolled their eyes with a huff and pushed the door open. “I have some broth for you, you poor wretch. At least you could—oh my GOD!”

Whumpee sat hunched over on the bed, the white bandages around their chest and abdomen stained all over with bright red. Flinching in pain with every movement, they glanced up at Caretaker with wide, lethargic eyes before looking away in shame. There was enough guilt in their face to wash away Caretaker’s sudden burst of frustration.

Sighing, Caretaker placed the tray on the nightstand and approached carefully. “I told you not to try getting up,” they scolded in as gentle of tone as possible. “Those sutures were badly done anyway. Here let me—”

“I’m fine!” Whumpee snapped, waving Caretaker’s hand away. “I got this. You don’t have to worry.”

Caretaker’s temper rose. “Well I’d sure love to see you take care of yourself, Whumpee. Look, half of the lacerations are too far back for you to reach. Stop being a fool and let me help.”

“Not happening.” Face set like flint against the pain, Whumpee hauled themselves farther back onto the bed, careful to not get blood on the sheets or pillow. “I’ve found ways before. I sure as hell can do it again.”

Caretaker rolled their eyes and ran a hand through their hair. Why?! This was way worse than any two-year-old tantrum they had ever dealt with. Ten little siblings had not prepared them for this level of stubborn idiocy. They turned around for a moment to get ahold of themselves. Then they said in a calmer voice: “do I have to forcefully sedate you like last time? Trust me, I hated it every bit as much as you did. But it didn’t have to happen.” They turned to see Whumpee watching them with death in their exhausted eyes. “Lay a hand on me and I’ll—” Whumpee broke off into a agonized coughing fit, their whole body shaking feebly.

Caretaker made the decision. They patted Whumpee’s hair and reached into the drawer of the nightstand for a small syringe that had been prepared earlier for such an event. Before Whumpee could recover, Caretaker grabbed their arm and slid the needle in, holding them while slowly depressing the plunger. Whumpee fought and twisted, their breath coming in hoarse gasps. Caretaker tossed the empty syringe away and pinned them down on the bed as the sedative slowly began to take effect. After a few minutes, they relaxed their hold and let Whumpee flop back onto the sheets. Whumpee’s eyes were half-open and regarding Caretaker with tired annoyance. “Fuck—you…” they mumbled.

“Gotta admit that that was easier than last time. And yeah, fuck you too.” Caretaker let them go and ran to the bathroom for fresh bandages and other supplies. “You can pass out anytime you want,” they said cheerfully when they got back. “Gotta restitch the mess you made.”

Whumpee groaned and buried their face in the pillow to hide the blush that crept into their pale face. Caretaker caught the movement and studiously ignored it. It must have been awful to be in this state when one was so strangely ashamed of depending on another human being. The thought made a rush of sympathy rush through Caretaker. “Don’t worry,” they murmured in a more serious voice. “I promise, I’ll finish this up and leave you alone.”

There was no response. Caretaker sighed and went to work.

**************************************************

Part 2:

Caretaker didn’t know exactly what had awakened them. They lay there in the dark, listening to the silence in the house. Grunting, they turned over to look at the clock. 3:24 AM. At that moment, there was the soft thump down the hall, near Whumpee’s room. Oh crap. Caretaker dragged the covers off and turned on the lamp. Feet bare, they opened their bedroom door and peered down the hall. A dim light was coming out of the cracks around Whumpee’s door. Bathroom light? Maybe. Caretaker crept down the hall and into the bedroom.

The bed was disheveled, sheets tossed aside in a twisted mess, pillows on the floor. The bathroom light was on and Caretaker approached as quietly as they could to find Whumpee hunched over the toilet, their forehead resting on their folded arms. Caretaker wondered if they had fallen asleep, but Whumpee shifted suddenly and threw up, their whole body shaking with fatigue. It looked like they had been there for hours.

Deciding to disregard the promise they had made earlier, Caretaker entered the bathroom and squatted down beside Whumpee, supporting them as they retched and threw up again. They noticed with relief that the stitches were still in place, although Whumpee was still clearly in a lot of pain. Unable to rub their back or shoulders due to the multiple lacerations, Caretaker gently cupped the back of their neck with one hand, massaging with their thumb. After some time, Whumpee slumped in exhaustion. They made no move to push Caretaker away so Caretaker stayed.

“You want some water?” Caretaker asked carefully. Whumpee shook their head and Caretaker was alarmed to hear a sharp sniff. No way. Whumpee was crying?!

They were. Their pale face was twisted strangely and tears were streaming down from bleary eyes. Any efforts to stop was apparently making them feel sicker. They seemed too miserable to even be ashamed anymore. Caretaker stared for a shocked second before recovering. “It’s ok,” they said reassuringly. “It’s ok, I’ve got you.”

“I’m so sorry,” Whumpee sobbed brokenly. “Please don’t sedate me again.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” Caretaker grabbed a tissue and wiped Whumpee’s face carefully. “Especially since you asked so nicely. Would you mind telling me what happened?”

Whumpee sniffed again. “Bad dream…” they managed to croak, then seemed to realize how childish that sounded. “I’m fine.”

“You crying on the bathroom floor at 3:30 in the morning is NOT fine.” Caretaker got them another tissue. “Is your back sore?”

Whumpee nodded and their face twisted up again as more tears came. Caretaker sighed and patted their hair. This was going to be a long night.

They turned the shower on low and helped Whumpee out of their T-shirt. They carefully removed the bandages. “You ready?” They asked. Whumpee nodded, and Caretaker helped them up and into the shower. Whumpee sat on the tiled floor of the shower while Caretaker ran warm water over their back and shoulders. They rested their forehead on their knees and tried to stop crying. Caretaker stroked their hair gently. “It’s ok to cry,” they told them. “No need to be ashamed. Just let it all out.”

Afterwards, Caretaker dried them off and helped them dress. Soon they had Whumpee back in bed, lying on their stomach while Caretaker rubbed salve over their stitched wounds. Deciding that it would be too much of a hassle to bandage them up again, Caretaker spread a light cloth over their back and pulled the sheet up. Whumpee’s eyes were still open, but they seemed much more relaxed than they ever had been before. Caretaker stood by the bed for a moment, remembering their promise. “You want me to leave now, Whumpee? It’s fine if you want to be alone.”

Whumpee glanced up at Caretaker and shook their head weakly. “Can you stay?” They asked.

The feeble voice went straight to Caretaker’s heart and they took Whumpee’s hand and knelt by the bed.

“Yeah,” they smiled. “Yeah, I can stay.”

#whump writing #whump fic #whump prompt

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sickficideas · 5 months

Text

start over || skk injury/sickfic

ao3! 5.9k - please refer to the tags and notes in the link for content + warnings!

Dazai is fairly certain he has a few broken ribs, but that’s not an unfamiliar feeling.

He resists the urge to run his hand over that spot on his chest. It’s sore and painful even completely untouched. He’s already gotten used to taking shallow breaths, anything deeper than that makes him cough, makes him only feel worse.

But he won’t see a doctor. He never does.

“I’ll take care of the report. You should go home,” Kunikida tells him. Dazai’s not used to the concern in his voice. They’ve been out all night and day on this case, which isn’t too unusual for them, but Dazai’s exhaustion has hit him much harder this time. It’s visible enough that Kunikida is concerned, but Dazai doesn’t think he has any idea about the condition of his ribs. “Might not be a bad idea to have Yosano check you over before you go, though.”

“She’s in Osaka, isn’t she?” Dazai asks, vaguely remembering the discussion from the night before. He yawns, the motion from his chest proving to be rather painful, but he hides it well from his partner, he thinks.

“She’ll be back tomorrow night,” Ranpo tells the two of them, always secretly listening. He looks like he’s actually busy with something at the moment, typing away on a computer.

“I’ll take you to a doctor, then,” Kunikida insists, setting his stack of reports down on the desk and rummaging through his bag for his keys.

“Nah, that’s alright. I think I’ll just go home, I feel fine,” Dazai insists, regardless of his true situation. Kunikida saw him get hit. He was thrown against a staircase during an altercation against someone who didn’t have a gift, and while Dazai can usually hold his own in a fight, there’s not much he can do against someone highly skilled in physical combat and nothing else.

“Are you sure? You got thrown pretty hard,” Kunikida says with a disapproving frown, setting his bag down.

“Yeah, yeah. It’ll probably just bruise,” Dazai says. He didn’t bring anything with him to work today other than a messenger bag, so he picks that up, and leaves his coat hanging over his chair. It’s far too hot for that today.

“If you’re sure. I’ll take you home, at least,” Kunikida insists, but Dazai waves him off before he can continue his search for his keys.

“I’ve got errands to run. I’ll do ‘em on my way home,” Dazai says. He knows Kunikida will stay here even though he’s scheduled to go home as well. He would rather get his work done than put it off.

Kunikida sighs and waves a hand as Dazai heads for the exit.

…

“He has a few broken ribs,” Ranpo says.

Kunikida lifts his head, eyes darting in Ranpo’s direction. It’s been a few minutes since Dazai left. Ranpo doesn’t elaborate, and he’s not quite sure how Ranpo could gather that just from looking at him.

“Are you sure?” Kunikida asks.

Ranpo lifts a brow. “Am I sure?”

“How do you know?” he asks.

“The way he was breathing. It’s causing him pain,” Ranpo explains as if it was obvious. “And he was hunched over by a few degrees. It’s more painful if he stands with good posture, but also when he sits down. He didn’t put his coat back on either, probably not worth it with the pain he’s in. It’s definitely his ribs.”

“Why the hell would he tell me he’s fine?” Kunikida grumbles with a heavy sigh. He can feel a headache coming on. Dazai is so incredibly -

“Well, I’m not a relationship counselor, I’m a detective. So, can’t help you there,” Ranpo shrugs.

Kunikida resists the urge to throw something at him.

…

Chuuya’s fancy penthouse it is, Dazai decides as he boards the subway.

His chest is starting to hurt a bit more. Going from standing up to sitting is slightly more painful, so he decides he’ll stand on the train instead and hold onto something at waist level to avoid unnecessary pain. He thinks he should text Chuuya that he’s heading over there, but he ends up in his own head, distracted by miscellaneous thoughts and advertisements in his view.

He almost misses the stop.

He feels his phone buzzing in his pocket, but he knows it’s Kunikida, and he doesn’t feel like answering. He’s sure Ranpo knows, he’s sure he’s told Kunikida, and answering the phone would certainly mean being harped on for not looking after his health.

Dazai understands his concern, he really does, but he’s fine. As long as he can still breathe, he would rather not see a doctor if he doesn’t have to.

The evening’s rush hour has started to calm down, thankfully. Dazai’s not sure he could handle being stuffed in a train car with that many people, especially now, but he gets out of the station unscathed and only has to endure a few minutes of walking to Chuuya’s penthouse. There’s a moment where he almost turns back around, but he’s already paid the train fare. Might as well finish what he started.

He digs through his bag for the key card he has to get to Chuuya’s floor, and he only manages to find it just when he makes it to the building. The elevator opens for him, and he ascends a few floors up to make it to Chuuya’s place. He takes in a few breaths, disappointed to find it hasn’t gotten any easier to breathe. Thankfully, Chuuya’s not as observant as his coworkers.

The elevator opens right to Chuuya’s living room after he's prompted once more to scan the key card. Normally, anyone else would have to be let in by him, but Dazai has stolen this extra key card of his to make it easier for him to get it. He doesn’t care for the extra steps.

He’s grinning when the elevator door opens to Chuuya almost half-dressed and sitting on his couch with a glass of wine, wide-eyed and not very happy to see company.

“Did you steal my fuckin’ key card again, Mackerel?” Chuuya grumbles, standing up from his spot on the couch to take his remote and pause the TV. He’s watching some brainless reality TV like he usually does, that’s no surprise, but Dazai’s at the point where he wouldn’t even mind watching it with him.

“You should wear that more often,” Dazai hums as he hangs his bag on Chuuya’s silly hat rack, something he knows Chuuya hates, but has given up reprimanding Dazai for. He sees Chuuya’s face redden a little at that comment. It’s an almost-too-small tank top he’s wearing with a baggy pair of sweatpants, but he’s got some nice-looking arms. He likes seeing them.

“You always scare the crap out of me when you show up like this,” Chuuya groans, obviously trying to change the subject. “I told you to text me when you’re coming.”

“Wanted to surprise you,” Dazai jokes, but he’s lost the energy to put any sort of teasing tone into his voice. He trudges over to the couch to sit down, slower than he normally would and carefully as he sinks down, trying to avoid making any grunts to show he’s still in pain.

Chuuya, though, isn’t as stupid as Dazai thinks he is. “You okay?”

Dazai’s still staring at his arms. “Huh? Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Stop looking at me like I have a pair of tits. You’re gross,” Chuuya grumbles, marching over to the kitchen. Dazai pouts, staring at the still-paused television, with no will or energy to get up to unpause it himself.

“Slug, can you unpause it?” Dazai asks, turning his head to watch Chuuya, who has taken his phone from the kitchen counter and sat at the bar, typing away.

“Do it yourself,” Chuuya huffs. “You want somethin' to eat?”

“‘M okay,” Dazai says. He should probably eat, but he’s never really hungry.

“I’m ordering food anyway. You like Chinese food, right?” Chuuya asks.

“Uh-huh,” Dazai nods, turning his head back to stare at the television, which has already moved to the idle screen. Dazai thinks he was watching a singing competition show, which isn’t nearly as bad as his usual choices.

Dazai sinks back into the couch and manages to snake one of the throw blankets over himself, feeling a little cold. He hears Chuuya muttering in the kitchen, always weirdly polite when he’s on the phone, ordering much more than the two of them could finish together.

He breathes in and breathes out a few times, realizing that not only is it not getting better, it almost feels worse. He’s having to take more shallow breaths. Maybe it would be a good idea to at least let Chuuya know, just in case Dazai suddenly can’t breathe anymore, but he’s certain Chuuya won’t handle news of broken ribs very well.

Chuuya returns with a shirt and pajama pants that Dazai left here ages ago, because obviously nothing Chuuya owns will fit Dazai’s tall frame. He lays the clothes over the side of the couch and clicks his tongue when Dazai’s eyes drift over to him.

“You look exhausted,” Chuuya murmurs.

“‘M fine. How long till the food gets here? I’m hungry,” Dazai huffs.

“Now you’re hungry, huh? Geez," Chuuya mutters to himself. "Change into these before you get on my bed.”

Dazai is well aware that he's not allowed to wear outside clothes in Chuuya’s bed and resists the urge to make a comment about the more serious topic of Chuuya's undiagnosed OCD in favor of getting closer to time in a bed. Chuuya's mattress is fantastic. Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy mattresses that give him the most rested sleep of his life. Maybe he can lay down for a little before the food gets here. He just needs to relax, he’s fine.

Chuuya starts to wander off again.

“Slug,” Dazai whines. “What are you doing now?”

“I needa do laundry. You wanna help, or keep up your freeloader lifestyle?” Chuuya calls as he walks off. Dazai doesn’t have the energy to shout back at him. Dazai realizes he didn’t make any solid plans at all to hang out with Chuuya, and that the latter has things he needs to do too, but he wishes he would use his absorbent amounts of money to hire someone to do his laundry for him.

Dazai, instead, starts to change into the clothes Chuuya brought out for him. The sweat pants are easy to slide on as he’s sitting down. It doesn’t hurt his chest too much at all. Taking off his collared shirt and vest isn’t too difficult either, he doesn’t have to pull anything over his head with the buttons, but he realizes he’ll have to with the shirt.

He puts that off, realizing he needs to change out his bandages, too. What a pain in the ass.

“Slug,” Dazai murmurs as he approaches Chuuya’s laundry room. He’s wearing a cardigan all of a sudden. Chuuya always puts something on as soon as it comes out of the dryer, he likes how warm it is. It’s cute. “Do you have bandages I can use anywhere?”

Chuuya finishes folding up a shirt before he looks at Dazai peering in the doorway, his eyes drifting down to his bandages. Dazai suddenly feels nauseous. He knows Chuuya has seen his skin without the bandages, he knows Chuuya doesn’t care, but he hates it. He hates it so much it makes him feel sick.

“Dazai, you know that I don’t -”

Chuuya stops when his eyes meet Dazai’s expression, probably on track to say something about how he doesn’t care about what’s underneath his bandages, but Dazai doesn’t want to have that conversation right now. He just wants to change the bandages so he’s clean enough to lay in Chuuya’s bed.

“There’s some left in the bathroom next to my bedroom. Second highest shelf on the right,” Chuuya says quietly, turning his attention back to folding his remaining articles of clothing.

Dazai wanders over to Chuuya’s bedroom with the shirt he’s supposed to put on folded over his arm, and he locks the door behind him, even with the knowledge that Chuuya can open it whenever he wants.

He starts to peel off the bandages, and he winces at the side of the deep purple bruise blooming over his ribs. That doesn’t look good at all. He doesn’t usually bruise like that. He runs his fingers over the spot, shivering at how his skin feels under the touch of his hand. He’s not sure any of that is real. He thinks he might have a fever. He’s overly sensitive to touch when he’s running a temperature, even at his own hands. But whether or not the fever is from his possible damaged ribs or just exhaustion, he won’t know until later, probably.

He lazily washes his face and runs a damp washcloth over his upper body, anywhere that’s reachable and doesn’t hurt to get to, before he dries off with a dry towel. He should probably shower, but he definitely can’t do that without it hurting right now. He does, however, hold that wet washcloth up to his face. It feels so good. He wonders if ducking his face into a sink filled with water would feel better than this. Maybe he’d drown while he’s at it, too.

But Chuuya’s sink is too low. He’d have to bend over a ton and that would hurt too much. He’s not in the business for a painful suicide.

He starts to wrap his arms back up, deciding to only wrap his neck and arms, and letting the t-shirt do the rest of the covering. He can’t lift up enough to get high on his chest, and it’s too much twisting around his body. He stares down the t-shirt that he’s set on the counter with a deep sigh. He just needs to rip it off like a bandaid. Pull it over his head. It can’t hurt too bad if he’s fast.

Only, it does. It hurts so much that he can’t even pull it over his head. He lowers his arms back down and whines, throwing his head back against the door. It’s so bad that it’s making him nauseous, although he’s not sure if he was feeling sick before that. His chest rattles when he takes in a breath, and he spits phlegm into the sink.

Bad sign.

"What's takin' so long?" Chuuya puffs from outside the door. Dazai almost jumps. He didn’t think he was in here for all that long, but apparently long enough. Dammit, if he opens the door and asks for help, Chuuya will see the bruise on his chest. But it’ll hurt too much to cover it, and then he’ll take even longer.

"Chuuya needs to help me put this on," he murmurs as he unlocks the door, the shirt still pulled up to the sleeves.

"What's wrong, you sore? I have ones that button from the front, if that's easier," Chuuya says, walking off to the closet before he even sees Dazai. “You guys do some crazy stuff today?”

“I got thrown against the stairs,” Dazai groans, leaning against the door frame from the inside, Chuuya’s footsteps approaching again. His arm comes in through the crack of the door with a shirt that buttons from the front, thank god, and his arm disappears once Dazai takes the shirt. He narrowly avoided a confrontation.

“Ow. You get hurt bad?” Chuuya asks, staying outside the door as Dazai shuts it again.

“No, just…sore, like you said,” Dazai manages with a little pained groan as he slips his arms through the sleeves, buttoning the front of the shirt.

“Good. That shit can really suck,” Chuuya huffs. “Actually, I saw Akutagawa curb-stomp a guy on a staircase the other day. Seriously brutal.”

Good to know Akutagawa hasn’t lost any of his violent tendencies, but he finds himself shivering at the idea of curb-stomping someone. Strange how much things have changed. Maybe it's just because of how he feels right now.

Once Dazai finishes buttoning up the shirt, he trudges over to Chuuya’s bedroom, deciding he’ll just lie down for a while as they wait for their food, but the nausea that’s starting to settle in his stomach is making him want to pass up the idea of food.

Dazai decides to just lay down on his side. Chuuya almost wanders out of the room, but he stops and turns around once he’s realized Dazai is lying down. He frowns.

"My tummy hurts," he mumbles.

"You probably haven't eaten all damn day,” Chuuya huffs. Dazai can’t deny that. He’s pretty sure he didn’t eat anything more than a snack yesterday, either, but he won’t admit it to Chuuya. He just whines to himself. “But I’ll get you some Pepto or something if it’ll help you feel better.”

Dazai isn’t sure that will do much for him, but Chuuya is already off to the kitchen before Dazai has anything to say about it. He forces himself to sit up, up and off Chuuya’s too-comfy mattress before he lays a hand on his chest. A deep breath almost has him in tears, he’s wincing so hard that the moment makes it hurt more. It feels like a knife is stuck between his ribs and he thinks if he takes a breath like that again, he’ll throw up. Not a good sign, even worse with how swimmy his head feels once it’s off the mattress.

Chuuya returns with a little medicine cup full of Pepto Bismol and Dazai doesn’t even have the energy to give him a reassuring smile, because it’s obvious that Chuuya is concerned, no matter how much he tries to hide it. His eye twitches as he approaches him, and he reaches a hand up to his cheek. Dammit.

"Shit, Dazai," Chuuya murmurs as he pulls his hand back. "Why the hell are you so hot?"

Dazai wants to make a joke, it's such a good opportunity to, but he can't. He feels awful. He’s considering making himself throw up, but he knows that’s not even remotely related to the root of his problem.

"Tell me what happened," Chuuya growls.

"It's just a few broken ribs," Dazai says quietly, but he’s finding it to be quite painful to even speak right now. He brings his hand back up to his chest.

“I’m calling one of our doctors over,” Chuuya hisses as he sets the cup of medicine on the nightstand.

Dazai freezes at the mere suggestion of that.

“No, Chuuya. Please,” he says, his breath hitching halfway through. His brain is flooded with awful things he doesn’t want to consider. “They’ll report to Mori.”

Chuuya stops in his tracks, his shoulders dropping at the last word Dazai speaks.

Dazai knows he's being paranoid. Realistically, Mori can't get to him anymore. Chuuya would never let him, he doesn't think anyone would, but none of them know the half of what Mori did to him. He would gladly use any opportunity to treat his body like a cadaver, wouldn’t he? Even now?

Even if he wouldn’t, Dazai is so paranoid about it that he’s losing his composure, and that's the problem.

He leans over the bed and gags into his hand, fully expecting to throw up, but it’s just saliva that’s pooled in his mouth. He keeps his hand under his mouth just in case, but now the nausea is pushed to the back of his mind, his brain focused on how much his current posture is hurting his lungs.

“Shit, hey. I won’t call our doctors,” Chuuya murmurs quietly, a gentle but cautious hand landing on Dazai’s shoulder. “Well…what about that doctor at your agency? Can’t she help you?”

“She’s in Osaka,” Dazai recalls. He winces at the concern in Chuuya’s voice. “I’m…I’m fine.”

“Fucking hell, Dazai, you’re not fine,” Chuuya huffs. His voice shakes. Dazai should have known that Chuuya is just as protective as Kunikida, if not worse. He can’t kind from any of them. “I’ll just - I’ll take you to a hospital.”

“You can’t just walk into a hospital, Chuuya," Dazai laughs dryly. He shivers at the thought of going to a hospital, but it’s a far better idea than being found by Mori. It doesn’t make him gag, at least.

“I don’t fucking give a fuck,” Chuuya growls. “You know how serious broken ribs can get, especially if you already have a fucking fever. You’ve probably got an infection. Why the hell would they just let you go home?”

Dazai wants to tell him that they let him go home because he didn't tell anyone he was injured. He doesn't like bothering them if he doesn't have to, and honestly, he prefers to avoid medical treatment of any kind altogether if he can. He was just trying to see how long he could go avoiding it.

"I'm gonna call a taxi and take you downstairs," Chuuya breathes out, turning on his heel and heading back for the kitchen to find his phone.

Dazai is left with his own brain, which is incredibly dangerous. He groans from the pain he’s in, and he’s trying not to think too hard about needing to go to a hospital. Maybe they can just sedate him before they do anything. He’d much prefer that. Is that an option?

He lays down on his side and curls up into a ball, but he doesn’t feel any better, it’s getting harder to breathe and that nauseous feeling won’t go away either, and it comes back with a vengeance. He forces his head up because he knows something is going to come up out of his throat, and he does feel a tiny bit guilty about getting it on Chuuya’s bed, but he can’t avoid it.

Dazai can't breathe. He's not entirely sure what he's coughing up. Foam, phlegm, vomit, maybe some blood, maybe a little bit of everything. He's seen Akutagawa do this on several occasions, actually, but he's never experienced it himself, so he's almost certain this has something to do with his lungs. Maybe the broken shards of his ribcage have poked holes into his lungs.

Oh god, he really can't breathe.

Chuuya's talking to him, but he can't hear a word. He hears his own name, he thinks, but all he can focus on is the sharp, unbelievable pain in his chest.

…

“It sounds to me like he has a lung infection, Dazai,” Mori says to him, expectant. He was waiting for Dazai to agree, to hand his subordinate over and let Mori take care of the rest. But even at seventeen, Dazai was smart enough to know Mori’s true intentions.

“Oh yeah? You’re a doctor now?” Dazai jokes. He’s stalling, only in Mori’s office to take a book or two out of his library that Hirotsu mentioned he needed for something he was working on. Akutagawa is outside the office, waiting. He’s coughing every now and then, coughs that really don’t sound good and that Dazai is well aware of, but he won’t hand him over to Mori.

“Come now, Dazai. Don’t let your subordinates suffer on account of your stubborn nature,” Mori teases.

“I’m not letting anyone suffer, Mori. A little cough never killed anyone,” Dazai says back, mocking that same teasing tone as he pulls out the last book he needs, but when he turns around, he realizes Mori had plans of his own. Elise was busy opening the door to the office and taking Akutagawa’s arm to lead him inside.

Akutagawa looks to Dazai, unsure of what’s going on, what he’s been brought in for, and Dazai is frozen. Dazai has been trying to limit their contact as much as humanly possible, and Mori seems to have become aware of that.

“My, don’t you look awful. How long have you had this cough for?” Mori asks him as Elise drags him closer, but Akutagawa resists the closer he’s brought into Mori’s frame of view. Dazai shakes. He’s been looking for a way to have Akutagawa seen by a doctor that Mori wouldn’t know about, but it’s nearly impossible. It’s something he’s been trying to do for himself, too, and he still hasn’t figured out how to do it. How to get one step ahead of Mori.

“Don’t answer him. We’re leaving,” Dazai growls, glaring at Akutagawa so he knows he’s serious, and Akutagawa shrinks back, still dead silent. Dazai takes Elise’s arm to pull her off of Dazai, and she disappears as soon as they make contact.

“Dazai, really? That wasn’t very nice of you,” Mori huffs. “It’s cruel of you to let your subordinates suffer. You know I would never want that for you, don’t you?”

Dazai takes Akutagawa’s arm and pulls him toward the exit, ignoring Mori’s words. Akutagawa is rightfully confused, but Dazai doesn’t need him to have any more information than he already does. He closes the door behind the two of them, and Akutagawa pulls his arm up to cough into his elbow. Dazai hears his chest rattle. He’s undoubtedly got a fever, too.

“Don’t ever go to him for any of this. Understand? I don’t care what he says,” Dazai bites, audibly frustrated and maybe a little scared, but Akutaagwa can’t pick up on the second half.

“I know,” Akutagawa answers, voice hoarse, “you’ve told me already.”

“Just making sure you listened. You’re not very good at that.” Dazai huffs, leading him down the corridor and back to the elevator.

Akutagawa looks like he’s ready to retort that claim, but he starts coughing again, into his hand, this time - blood and foam coating his palm, visibly startling him, too. He needs to see a doctor, he might even need to go to a hospital, Dazai doesn’t know the extent of his infection at all, but this isn’t normal.

Akutagawa trips when they pass the threshold of the elevator, clearly his head isn’t where it’s supposed to be - he catches himself on his hands and knees and the coughing only gets worse, bright red blood splattering on the marble elevator floor. He takes in shaky and unsteady breaths in between. Dazai just spends a few seconds staring. What the hell is he supposed to do about this?

Akutagawa collapses completely after one heavy breath seems to take all of his remaining energy out of him, and Dazai only thinks about how lucky he is that this happened here, and not in front of Mori. He just stares at his shaking form as they descend the building, and Dazai needs to have a game plan of what to do once they reach the bottom.

“Dazai,” Akutagawa barely manages to breathe out, making a pathetic attempt to get off of the floor, only to crash back down into it. Dazai kneels down beside him. He can’t even carry Akutagawa. Who does he call? What does he do?

“I know. Give me a few hours to figure it out,” Dazai murmurs.

Anyone but Mori. Akutagawa can’t go through what Dazai went through.

…

When Dazai wakes up, he’s stuck in a hospital room, the sterile smell of it all only reminding him how nauseous he is.

He imagines he’s been asleep for quite a while, but he doesn’t feel well-rested at all. He’s never felt that way after a hospital visit. It’s the pain medications they pump him full of, he thinks - they’re the only reason he’s slept at all, probably.

But he can breathe a little easier. There’s a mask over his nose and mouth, probably not a good sign.

There’s a nurse in the room with him, looking surprised to see his eyes meeting hers. She says something to him but Dazai doesn’t have any idea what she’s saying. The mask she’s wearing makes it impossible to even guess. She seems to jot down his vital signs before she scurries out of the room.

He realizes what she was saying to him when Chuuya comes trailing in through the door, his hair tucked into a beanie that doesn't suit him and wearing a hoodie, a black mask and a pair of fake glasses.

If Dazai had the energy to laugh right now, he would probably do it until he couldn’t breathe anymore. Chuuya doesn’t look all that ridiculous, it’s a decent disguise in practice, but it’s hilarious all the same. Only because Dazai knows Chuuya.

A shaky hand of his reaches up to pull down the mask, and Chuuya almost pulls it back over his face once he’s at Dazai’s bedside, but the nurse gives a little nod. She says something to him before she leaves the room, but the sound is muffled.

Chuuya’s voice, though, is as clear as a bell.

“You look like shit,” Chuuya mumbles, brushing his hair back and out of his face, pulling off his own mask once the nurse is out of the room. Not the first thing Dazai wants to hear when he wakes up, but it’s Chuuya.

“You look stupid,” Dazai retorts, his voice so hoarse it almost sounds like he’s lost it completely. He wants to clear his throat, but has a feeling that won’t make him feel any better.

Chuuya grumbles something under his breath before he pulls off the beanie and pushes the glasses up on top of his head, and Dazai’s never been so glad to see that annoyingly bright colored hair before. He’s really kind of gorgeous. Maybe it’s the drugs making him think that.

"I'm sorry I left you," Chuuya murmurs, reaching over to squeeze the hand that’s free from an IV. "I know you hate places like this."

Dazai's a little unsure of what to say. Chuuya's not the type to get so candid with him, and while Dazai truly does despise being in hospitals, he doesn't remember ever telling Chuuya that directly. Then again, his memory of the past has been hazy. He doesn't even remember much of anything after losing his breath on Chuuya's bedroom. For all he knows, Chuuya could have been with him the whole time.

"I'm an adult now, you know," Dazai teases, flashing a weak smile.

Chuuya rolls his eyes. "Not what I'm talking about. But whatever."

"It's fine, slug," Dazai tells him. It’s not nearly as bad of a fear as it used to be for him. He knows that sometimes it’s unavoidable. He knows he doesn't have to worry about Mori anymore, at least not while in the care of the Armed Detective Agency.

“You scared the shit out of me. Seriously,” Chuuya mumbles. “You’re staying with me for a while once you’re discharged.”

“I have to go back to work,” Dazai whispers. Sure, it’s not the working part he’s concerned with, but he really should pop in every now and then at the very least, so that they know he’s alive. Before Kunikida decides to end his life prematurely.

“Since when you do give a shit about that?" Chuuya groans, squeezing his hand a little tighter. "They're the reason you're in this mess in the first place, aren’t they?”

Dazai’s stomach drops at the notion, because that’s really not the truth. He simply lied to them, just like he lied to Chuuya. It’s what he always does. It has nothing to do with any of them.

They probably would've taken good care of him, too.

“Mm…I think you've got it all wrong, little Slug,” Dazai says, feeling himself start to doze off again. He's exhausted and doesn't particularly feel like explaining any of that to him, even though he's sure Chuuya would at least consider it.

“Don't call me little, you ass,” Chuuya grumbles, squeezing his hand a little tighter, “I'm taking you back to my apartment once you're discharged. End of story.”

Dazai's eyelids start to feel heavy, and he doesn't fight Chuuya's demand. He can always sneak out if he needs to.

But maybe he'll be okay with Chuuya looking after him, for a while.

…

A week later, Dazai thinks he's well enough to slip out of Chuuya's apartment early one morning, to pop into the Agency.

“Healing well from your broken ribs, Dazai?” Ranpo says as he happens to wander past him just as soon as Dazai enters the building.

“Can't keep any secrets from you, can I, Ranpo?” Dazai says, only sounding a little nervous because he can feel Kunikida glaring at him all the way from his desk. It seems the two of them are the only ones here so far, like usual. At least Atsushi isn't here to witness Dazai's inevitable death at Kunikida's hands.

“You know I don't normally air out everything you try to hide, but Kunikida already wants to kill you,” Ranpo says casually on his way back to his desk. “Figured it doesn't matter what I say.”

“Morning, Kunikida,” Dazai says as cheerfully as he can, but Kunikida has already hurled a pretty heavy report collection his way, one that Dazai's head just narrowly misses. He brings his heads up to his face in surrender.

“Don't morning me, Dazai. Where the hell have you been? Obviously you were injured, and I haven’t heard from you in over a week -”

“Aww, Kunikida, were you worried about me?” Dazai teases. His eyes dart over to Ranpo blissfully ignoring everything happening before him, wondering why he didn't give Kunikida his whereabouts when he could have easily figured out where he's been hiding. He just smiles, though. Ranpo keeps hidden what Dazai doesn't want everyone to know about.

“I'm one more incident away from putting a tracker in that damn bolo tie,” Kunikida grumbles, somehow managing to get past his anger and sit back down in his chair. He grumbles something that Dazai doesn't quite understand. He feels safe enough to approach his own desk, and sit across from Kunikida.

“What was that?” Dazai asks, tilting his head.

“Are you okay?” Kunikida says, straightening up a stack of reports on his desks with a heavy huff.

“I'm okay,” Dazai says with a half smile. “No need to worry your pretty little head about me, Kunikida. You know the universe won't let me die.”

“That's not the point, Dazai,” Kunikida grumbles, almost reminiscent of a comment Chuuya made to him at the hospital. These two always insist on worrying over him. “Tell me next time you're hurt. At least send me a damn text so I know you're not bleeding out in a ditch somewhere.”

“Well, I could be, regardless of the contents of whatever text I might send you,” Dazai teases, and Kunikida looks like he might throw the pen he's holding right at Dazai's head, but he refrains.

“Get to work. You still need to finish that report,” Kunikida grumbles, tossing him a blue folder.

“I thought you said you'd finish it for me,” Dazai says, lifting up his head as the door opens, revealing Atsushi and Kyoka, both looking surprised to see him. Atsushi rushes past everyone else as Dazai smiles at him.

“No, you pissed me off. I started it, you do the rest,” Kunikida sighs just before Atsushi sits beside him and starts a string of worried questions and assumptions that Dazai only half listens to, only watches his eyes. Chuuya really does have them wrong, they would never want him in that situation.

Chuuya would definitely like Atsushi, with how much he likes Akutagawa. He might even get along with Kunikida. Chuuya joining them for dinner sometime is some faraway ridiculous fantasy that he could only ever see Oda suggesting, and he just smiles to himself.

“Are you even listening?” Atsushi sighs.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dazai says. “Start over?”

78 notes · View notes

pixelatedraindrops · 3 months

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Hello everyone!! Today I grow a year older :3 (and I hate it lmao) FEEL FREE TO REPLY BIRTHDAY WISHES IF YOU WANT :3

So, over the time I've come back here, I've become pretty confident and proud of my once hidden passion about sick characters, sickfics and sick comfort/whump... 🌡️

And you all have been so supportive and sweet despite my weirdness so I thank you for that. You helped me feel more confident in my otherwise weird fixation <3 So, for my birthday I thought I'd try and make up a little drawing challenge for anyone who wants to give it a try... There are soo many talented artists on this site (and in this fandom)

So... It's your turn to target your faves now. You will see how fun it is and hopefully understand why I love doing it so much. 😈🌡️

(plus it's my birthday and I require some sustenance LMAO JKJK)

But yeah anyone can join in. This is just for fun though! You don't have to if you don't want to! I think its okay to ask for some food on my birthday though...right?? X'D So if you wanna do sth for my birthday...then... 👉👈 💦

CHALLENGE BELOW~

DRAW YOUR FAVE ON A SICK DAY CHALLENGE🌡️😷🥵🤧

~~~~

(Mmmmkay, I am lying to myself when I say this isn't mostly aimed at the RainCode community... X'D Can't help myself. But anyone can join regardless of the fandom!!)

So here's the challenge and the rules!! (featuring my two main lil targets ofc :3)

Regardless of who it is, put your fave through some sickness hell >:3c I'd love to see it! Make em' as miserable as you want!

destroy them 😈 jkjk XD

If you're in the RainCode community you can target anyone, but as you know, my main targets are Yuma and Makoto. If they're also your faves and who you decide to use, that will make me extra happy!

Some tips for anyone new to drawing a sick day scenario art. A few things that make it look convincing are the following:

Pajamas or Loungewear

Messy Bed Hair

Fever flushed face w sweat or at least a red nose

Tired Eye bags

Shivery body

Ice Pack or a Compress on the head

Thermometer sticking from their mouth

LOTS OF BLANKETS

Tissues or medicine surrounding them

Tea or Soup (or both)

Those are just to name some from the top of my head. If you'd like some pointers on how to make a character look ill, check out my Fever Coloring Guide. This is for digital artists but traditional artists can try it too!

You can add injury or angst to the scene but I'd like illness to be the main focus of it.

The scene can be anything you want to, it can be fluffy and wholesome (with a caretaker) it can be angsty, or it can be silly. Its all up to you! Do it for the sake of fluff! Caretaking scenes are the best for any kind of relationship >w<

Either way, have fun with it!! I look forward to see what people make if they decide to give it a try! It doesn't even have to be a full on picture! Doodles and sketches are fine too! Just show me something >w<

(feel free to tag me and say happy b-day and mention my challenge, I am proud to be known for this and would love for many to participate :3) I wanna see you take a go at it :3 Show me your style! :D

~~~

(wow look at me misspelling the word writing on text when I did it fine with my own hands lol)

Now, I know not everyone can draw...

Well never fear! I accept writing as well! ✍️✍️✍️

(hi vivia lol sorry for giving you a cold, at least you have an excuse to read and do nothing now haha x3)

Sickfics are one of the biggest things I live for! Any little drabbles or full fics with more than one chapter are welcome! Again target who you want any fandom you want, but I'll def be super happy if you make a RainCode fic. And even happier if you target my faves as well, but again, anything will do! Just make a cute story about your fave being miserable and being tended to! Trust me, it's super fun!

You can add injury or angst to the scene but I'd like illness to be the main focus of it.

Feel free to post your writing here and tag me or mention my AO3!

If you need a start to your fic, look on my blog for illness prompts! Maybe it can help give you a good start or give some inspiration! (thats why I share 'em :3)

I look forward to anything you try to write!

That's about all!! I hope you decide to participate! ✨

Good luck, have fun, and godspeed you future whumpers! 😈

(nah jk XD)

AGAIN THIS IS FOR FUN! NO PRRSSURE IF YOU DON'T WANT TO!

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v1vian-th3-f4nfic-wr1ter · 4 months

Note

hi there!! could you write a little something about reader taking care for Felix Fickelgruber who happened to catch a particularly bad cold? my heart is craving fluff rn hehe

Of course my dear anon!

Felix Fickelgruber X Reader

Sickfic (Request) Divider by @cafekitsune!

Summary: Brilliant! The one day he thought of going back home by foot there was rain, and he didnt have an umbrella! Just...great, now hes in bed being forced to stay home

"But N/N i must go to work!" Fickelgruber protested, You pushed him back into the bed and took his temperature, 105F?! "No you are staying home!" You said sterned and he could only cross his arms and pout, therea no way youre letting him go to work "But-" "No." He whined, you went to the kichen to get mediciene, he tried to sneak out

"Get your arse to bed..." Not even looking, he obeyed and you gave him the meds and made a simple soup, one of his favorites! Though all that you cook are his favorites, your soup is quite nice

You poured a glass of water (not cold) and you placed it on a small table and tray, you place it down in front of him "Eat up, Felix" he rolled his eyes and ate the soup, he smiled a little but he tried to keep pouting

"Why isnt the water cold?" You shook your head at him "The water so your throat wont hurt, now eat" he took another spoonful of soup "But its perfectly fine..." He took another, you shook your head and gestured for him to keep eating

After he finished you cleaned up and laid next to him in bed, still pouting but he relaxed his face when you stroked his head gently, kissing his forehead not his mouth, bcs yknow...hes sick

When he fell asleep you moved to your room, sleeping peacefully

You woke up when you heard a flower vase shattering, barging into his room "WHAT THE HELL?!" He was on the floor, face in the ground, his hand on the bedside table trying to get up and a shattered flower vase next to him

"Nothing my sweet bon bon...though i might need help up..." You picked him up and place him on his bed and cleaned up the shattered glass "So...what happened." You look at him dead in the eyes "Well...i tried to get up and get food...but i fell off by bed and..yeah..." "Well are you okay at atleast?" He nodded and settled back into his bed

"After breakfast, you are sleeping with me, this is too much..." You rubbed your temples and made him breakfast, afterward he walked (more like dragged by you) to your room and settled in

You got into pyjamas and stroked his head until he slept and he slept for A WHILE, but i guess you gotta do it before anything breaks again, you kissed him on the lips and wrapped your arms around him again, falling asleep

(Hope you like it anon!)

#felix fickelgruber #wonka 2023 #felix fickelgruber x reader #sickfic

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im-in-a-love-cult · 23 days

Note

an absolute win for the transmasc community 🙇

ngl I'm a sucker for sickfics and would love to read anything involving Remus looking after an ill reader who's neck deep in homework and refuses to take a break. maybe they fall asleep in the library, maybe they grumble about not being able to taste anything at breakfast, i dont know, take any creative liberties you'd like 😌

Oh i actually love you, i was thinking about writing earlier and this is the perfect excuse 😭 thank you my love

idk why i started off so angry at the start, i was trying to make him seem frustrated 😔/swearing/author cannot write for shit ☹️☹️/the layout is weird but if i don't do it in bulletpoints it'll be worse 🌚/author is British don't even start with me. 'Bollocking isnt British slang' WELL I USE IT OK 😕😕/not proof read, might go back and tweak it but i doubt it, sorry my love/do these warnings make me sound like a dick? ☹️

Remus Lupin x ill transmasc reader

Obviously you had to get ill now. Absolutely fucking brilliant.

You were absolutely balls deep in work that will not help you in the future whatsoever. Which is really a punch in the face cause you don't even have balls

Remus, of course, being the absolute star he is, wasn't the biggest fan of you overworking yourself, especially in this state

He tried to gently coax you out of this habit. Which worked for about half an hour before you got straight back to it

It's either an absolute bollocking from the teachers or an absolute bolloking from your immune system. Great.

You were currently hunched over a desk in the library, trying to focus.

Lines weren't lining. I swear, you read the same line about 57 times over and it just wasn't going in

You lay your head down in frustration

Look, you didn't mean to fall asleep, but it's grasp was just so comforting

It wasn't until about 20 minutes of Remus asking your mates where the hell you were until he found you absolutely knocked out in the library

His lip quirked up slightly, stroking your cheek gently

He packed up all your books. Another day.

Listen, he would've carried you but with his joints that is not happening

He awoke you as peacefully as he could. He felt like shit about it too.

"Sh, shh, i know dove, i know darling, we'll get you to bed, yeah? Atta boy"

Of course, you can lean a good amount of weight on him as you walk

When you protest slightly he gives you a stern look

"Love, you're pale, your voice sounds like your nose has earplugs up it. Just, let me take care of you. For the hell of it, yeah?"

God, his voice could convince the most stoic person on earth.

Eventually he got you into bed, warm hands taking your binder off (gifted by the courtesy of James)

Normally, after all that moving around the school you'd be awake again, but God everything about that man is so relaxing

He gently, as if he's handling a porcelain doll, dresses you into something comfier, kissing your forehead

"Need anything baby? Tea? Hot chocolate?"

Eventually, you dose off, a side table of neatly folded tissues and a body filled with warmth.

ACTUALLY PROUD OF THIS ONE?? WOAH??Kinda didn't get across amazingly that reader was sick, sorry pookie ☹️☹️✊️ hope you enjoyed lovely!!

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emlovessid · 1 day

Note

Hiii, I'm here to take advantage of your follower appreciation thingy to fuel my need for fluffy Jeggy sickfics 🥰

Prompt: Regulus is sick and refusing to stay in bed even though he's running a fever. Cue James throwing him over his shoulder and carrying him to bed (bonus points if they're not together yet, hehe)

hiiii wild <3 of course, a fluffy sickfic just for you!

It hasn’t been a particularly exciting work day – emails, meetings, spreadsheets, more emails – but at least he’s working from home so only had to dress nicely from the waist up, keeping his flannel pyjama pants off camera.

He’s in the middle of a meeting, on mute but nodding along to show that he’s paying attention, when over his screen he notices Regulus walk past the open doorway, dragging his feet across the floorboards like he’s impersonating a zombie.

It takes a great amount of restraint to wait the remaining eight minutes until his meeting is over, trying not to make it obvious that his mind is very much elsewhere. The moment the meeting is over and his camera is off, James is pushing out of his seat and heading into the living room, where he finds Regulus sitting on the couch in a sort of daze.

“You’re hot, Reg,” James says, eyes furrowed as he presses the back of his palm to Regulus’ forehead..

“Are you flirting with me, James?” Regulus says with wide, and dare he say hopeful, eyes.

“N–no, you know that’s not what I meant. You’re burning up,” James stammers, trying not to read too much into the look on Regulus’ face, a look that James could almost swear was disappointment. “Go back to bed, I’ll get you some water and something to bring down your fever.”

Heading into the bathroom, James rummages around in the cupboard above the sink until he finds a box of Panadol. Popping two out of the packet and into his hand, he fills up a glass of water and moves down the hall to Regulus’ room. Regulus’ room that Regulus is not in.

“Bloody hell,” James mutters under his breath, before calling out, “Reg!”

He finds Regulus in the kitchen, arms carrying ingredients from the fridge to the bench.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a sandwich,” Regulus says, looking at James like he’s stupid.

“No, you’re not. You’re going to bed,” James insists, taking the knife out of Regulus’ hands and putting it out of arm’s reach.

“Yes, I am. I want a sandwich, so I’m making a sandwich.”

“Reg, I mean this is the nicest way possible, but you look like shit.” Ignoring the glare Regulus gives him, James continues, “You look exhausted, you’re sweaty, you’re running a fever. You need to rest.”

“I’m fine.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, James sighs before wrapping his arms around Regulus’ waist and hauling him over his shoulder.

“James, what the fuck?” Regulus groans, though he doesn’t put up a fight as James walks him into Regulus’ room and drops him on his bed.

Picking up the pills and glass of water that he’d left on Regulus’ bedside table, James holds them out to him and says, “Take these, drink the water, and I will be back with a sandwich in a few minutes, okay?”

Rolling his eyes, Regulus sighs, “Okay.” A pause, and then he adds, “Can I have extra pickles?”

“Yeah, of course you can.”

When James walks back into the room five minutes later, plated sandwich with extra pickles in hand, he’s pleasantly surprised to find Regulus fast asleep on top of his covers. Placing the sandwich next to the now empty water glass, James manuevers the covers out from under Regulus, before draping them back over and tucking him in.

He hesitates for a moment before leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead, his skin clammy beneath James’ lips, giving Regulus one last look before closing the door quietly behind him and leaving Regulus to rest.

follower appreciation – drop me a prompt <3

#alrighty we are back!!#jegulus #jegulus fic #marauders #sometimes i write things #replies

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1moreoffkeyanthem · 3 days

Text

Hey y’all guess what?!? :) it’s time for a new episode of Bedtime Stories With PCE!!!

Who ordered some old man yaoi? That’s right, this one is set right after If Heaven And Hell Decide, with a sick Kyle, worried Stan, the best little immortal cat of all time, adding injury to illness, two middle aged men being massive fantasy dorks, all that goodness. Very sorry to my favorite arthritic ginger it will happen again, very sorry to his extremely concerned husband.

And y’all. I’m dedicating this to the Sickfic Queen herself, @alwaysinstyle who consistently kicks ass and gets stoked about style taking care of each other with me. Ana I love you so much and I’m so proud of you. All the people in your corner, we have you covered.

Also OFC the rest of the RANT homies have been subjected to random snippets of this over the past 2 weeks or so (jesus my sadsack ass needs to get some motivation back how has it been two weeks) but hey I will always be obnoxious when the mood strikes me and this long ass monstrosity is FINALLY done!!! Thank y’all fr for putting up with me.

Here’s •Well, That Would Be Pretty Odd•

A subtle knock at the door drew Stan’s attention and Kyle from uneasy rest. His husband’s head lolled exhaustively in his hand, still drained of energy and, according to the screen displaying his vitals, running a pretty high fever. Stan kept one arm protectively over him and turned to the door. “Yeah?”

The doctor entered, shutting the door behind her. “Hey, guys, how are we doing in here?”

Kyle pulled up slowly, clearly emotional, like he always got when he was sick. “Can I go home yet? Moose needs me.”

“Our cat,” Stan explained. “He’s worried he scared our cat.”

“I did.”

“Scared the hell out of your husband, too, sick as you are. It says on the chart you guys filled out that your blood sugar was low enough to potentially trigger a seizure. If he hadn’t acted as fast as he did, you’d be even worse off than you are.”

Kyle slumped back into Stan. “He always rescues me,” he murmured.

Stan felt like crying. “I’m your knight when you need me, dude.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, what’re we working with here? Stomach flu, dehydration, complications because of the diabetes, all that, right?”

“Right. Kyle, we have you on antivirals and fluids via IV for now, and I know you’re eager to get home-“

“-he hates hospitals-“

“-I hate hospitals.”

The doctor smiled kindly, even after getting interrupted. Stan liked her. “We’re keeping you overnight at least, but if your vitals are still stable and your fever is less than 102, we can send you home.”

Stan knew Kyle appreciated being the one addressed about his own health. This doctor could read the room, that’s for sure. Kyle nodded tiredly, eyes closed.

“How about when we go home? What’s the plan?” Stan inquired, tired as fuck himself but making an exception for Ky, always.

“Fluids, rest, anything with nutritional value that can stay down. Your friend in the waiting room mentioned orange juice as you guys’ go-to when Kyle’s having trouble with blood sugar? And he said you’re always diligent about keeping an eye on his health.” She was definitely addressing Stan now, since Kyle had clearly relinquished responsibility for the time being, knowing Stan had him covered. Hell yeah he did. “Any further complications; if you catch the bug too and can’t take care of him, another bad sugar drop or fever spike, and you guys come right back here. But at this point, it’s looking like this is something manageable from home, fingers crossed.”

And Stan had every finger crossed. He’d take care of Kyle, just like Kyle took care of him. Even if he was kind of scared as fuck, not having seen him quite this sick since maybe college. Or even when they were kids and he needed kidney surgery. He bit the panic down. Kyle was okay.

“Gotcha. I can spend the night? Spousal rights and everything?”

“You won’t convince him not to stay if you say no,” was Kyle’s muffled reply.

The doctor laughed. “I won’t make you leave. The last thing I want is either of you worked up, especially you, Kyle. If you need your husband with you to be comfortable-“

“-mhm-“

“-that’s not a problem in my book.” She tapped her clipboard with long fingernails. “There’s a call button on the bed if you need anything between the nurses checks, and I’ll tell your friend he’s free to go. He isn’t allowed back here, I’m afraid, but I can also let him know he can be the one to pick you up in the morning, if that’s what you two want?”

Kyle mumbled something that sounded like “like a good neighbor, Tucker is there” to the tune of the state farm insurance jingle. The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, he’s pretty delirious, alright.” A couple quick checks to Kyle’s IV line and heartbeat monitor, and she was gesturing for Stan to lay his half asleep husband back down. “You boys get some rest. We’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks,” Stan whispered, letting Kyle nuzzle into his chest as she left the room. Once they were alone in the darkened space, he kissed him softly on the top of the head. Kyle was a space heater. But if the hospital staff wasn’t alarmed, they were okay. “I’ve got you, baby, just sleep.”

The next morning, Kyle improved enough to leave and discharge paperwork done, they faced the problem of actually getting the sick man home.

Stan waved off the nurse’s offered wheelchair and stubbornly picked Kyle up because like hell was he losing even a second of contact. That and he took pride in the fact that he was in his 40s and still able to carry his husband.

“Sir, there’s procedure…”

Kyle snorted from where his head was against Stan’s shoulder, coherent enough to be aware but still too weak to insist on, god forbid, trying to walk on his own. “Believe me, ma’am, there’s no way in hell you’re convincing this guy not to carry me. Losing battle, mark my worms- words.”

Someone needed to be home in bed.

The nurse sighed, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth argument. Thank God, because Kyle could out argue anyone normally, but he was fucking tired.

“Just sing me home again, Orpheus,” he murmured into his husband’s ear.

Stan laughed at the reference. “Alright, ma’am, so if we’re all set….”

“Yes, yes, you can go. Hope you feel better.”

Kyle only had a vague recollection of both Stan and Craig yelling at the hospital staff when they brought him in, which was kind of funny to think about. Craig didn’t get worked up about things easily, and Stan was as gentle as they came. But it was nice to know his friend and his partner were willing to act so out of character for his sake. He muttered a “hey, spaceman” in greeting when Stan lowered him into the back of Craig’s car, mid morning sun forcing him to keep his eyes closed.

Craig barked a short laugh, pulling from the parking lot when both his passengers were settled for the short drive. “Someone’s feeling better.”

“I’ll get him set to rights, kick the plague’s ass,” Stan said, softly kissing his husband’s still too warm forehead. “Thanks for picking us up, dude. And for last night.”

“No biggie,” Craig shrugged nonchalantly. “Someone had to keep a level head and it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be either of you.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong there. Craig was probably the least prone to getting over emotional person Stan had ever met.

Craig’s husband, however, was the exact opposite. Upon getting home and getting up to bed, Kyle could faintly hear the frantic voice of Tweek downstairs, bringing Moose back from spending the night over at apartment two.

Kyle was nauseous, not to the point that he had been, but nauseous all the same, waiting for Stan to be done retrieving their cat and filling Kyle’s water. He felt weak as shit, and sweaty, which was probably a reasonably good indicator of his fever coming down, but it fucking sucked. And he was going to need some soup or something in him soon so his blood sugar didn’t get so bad again, which was another thing that sucked, because why do flesh prisons require so much maintenance? Why did his body require so much to function.

He didn’t realize tears were flowing until Stan entered the bedroom, hands full with the water, a KMBS, and one of those bottled protein drinks that tasted like chalk. Moose was quick to jump up and pad softly over to him, big blue eyes so worried and sweet as he curled up beside him. Kyle’s two blue eyed boys.

The second of whom was setting the drinks on the bedside table. There was a straw in each, so Kyle wouldn’t have to move as much to drink. It made him cry harder.

“Shhh, dude, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Stan climbed onto his side and grabbed the juice, holding it to Kyle’s lips. “I know you don’t feel good, that’s okay. I’ve got you. Go slow, okay?”

Kyle complied, the sharp taste of salted orange juice helping both physically and mentally. Plus, it’s hard to drink something and cry at the same time, so his breathing was a little less sporadic. A few sips were all he managed before his stomach started rolling, and he shook his head. Stan understood, setting the cup down and pulling Kyle’s face into his chest. “Just sleep, baby. I’m gonna have to check your temperature and levels in about an hour, but just sleep until then, alright?”

“Mhm.”

Stan would take care of him. Kyle would put up a fight, when he had the strength to, but Stan knew from experience that he’d be ‘secretly’ loving being cared for.

The husbands had a couple favorite positions to hold each other in. They’d hold the other from behind, arms wrapped around and poised to kiss an exposed nape or shoulder as a reminder of their presence. They would entangle themselves like they were doing now, they’d let the other’s head rest on their legs, Kyle would perch himself in Stans lap or Stan would drape over him like a blanket. Holding each other was safe. And in this moment Stan wrapped protectively around his sick partner like it was his sacred duty, one hand cradling Kyle’s head from underneath, fingers gently rubbing his hair, the other arm tucking him firmly against himself, feeling Moose’s purrs vibrating where the cat had claimed his place against Kyle’s back, right below the place Stan’s arm was wrapped around.

Stan glanced at the nightstand clock, keeping watch for the next time they’d need to wake up for a check in. About an hour and he’d get the thermometer to make sure they were still headed in the right direction, check Kyle’s levels, make them both something for, well, he supposed lunch at this point, and call the clinic to let his coworkers know that he’d be out a few days for a family emergency. He’d have to let Kyle’s work know too, before his husband tried to go into school still unwell.

Fitfully, Kyle dozed, sweating in his sleep, which Stan knew damn well he’d complain about when he woke up, but personally, he didn’t mind holding a miniature sun, because it was Kyle. Overheated, but still Kyle.

It hadn’t quite been an hour, but the warmth was starting to concern him. He gently kissed the top of his husband’s head, encouraging him to stir.

“Dude, hey.”

Kyle let out a tired whine as indication that he was awake.

“I know, baby. I just need to check your temperature and then you can go back to sleep.”

“I can check my own damn temperature,” Kyle protested, rolling over onto his back when Stan relinquished his grasp around his beloved. He scowled. “I’m all sweaty.”

Stan chuckled lowly. Was he right or was he right. “Gimme a second.”

Upon getting the thermometer and finding that they were still going in the right direction, Stan relaxed slightly. He let Kyle check both his temperature and blood sugar by himself, because it wasn’t worth the impending argument and the last thing he wanted was to make his husband feel helpless. Fever was down, but he definitely needed something to eat soon.

“Dude, do you think you can handle something solid, or you wanna keep sticking with drinks?”

Kyle hadn’t puked in a while, so he felt like maybe something simple, easy on the stomach, would be okay. As much as he wanted to keep going with the safe option of juice and a protein shake, he wouldn’t get better without something substantial in him and he knew it. “I can try. No promises.”

“You don’t need to promise anything,” Stan insisted, leaning down to kiss him on the way out of bed. “But I have an idea, if you’re okay by yourself for a few minutes.”

“Moose is with me. I’m not by myself,” Kyle remarked with a sleepy smile.

Stan snorted and went to change into jeans, last night’s pajamas not exactly ideal attire for walking to the BBQ place a block over. Kyle was weird about food sometimes, but Brendan’s mac and cheese was a simple, safe, Kyle approved bet. He’d probably want it to get cold first like he usually did (weirdo), but sick Kyle was sort of a wild card. They’d see.

“I’ll be back in fifteen, dude, drink some water.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Kyle heard the door close downstairs, slowly reaching for his water at the bedside, one hand resting on their cat’s head. Moose was stretched out along his side, fluffy tail dangling off the side of the mattress.

“You sleepy too, young nastyman?” Kyle asked, setting the bottle down and closing his eyes. Moose purred in response.

Apparently he’d drifted off again, waking up to the rustle of a takeout bag and a strong, smoky smell.

Kyle clapped a hand over his mouth. Ordinarily the smell of brisket and ribs wouldn’t bother him, but in his half asleep state, smelling meat on Stan of all people…

“…Dude?”

“FUCKING CHANGE!” Kyle screeched, staggering up to run to the bathroom, tears in his eyes because the bbq place smell all over his vegetarian husband was wrong and disorienting and he hated being sick and fevers made him sensitive and an asshole and-

Falling hard in front of the toilet, he felt his knee go out. The cherry on top of the fucking cake while his stomach tried to escape his body. Kyle cried out in pain, which was cut off immediately by a wave of sick splashing into the porcelain while he attempted to move and take the weight off his left leg, shaking and already crying because he was pissed and it hurt and he couldn’t catch a damn break. Dry heaving and spluttering, he collapsed tiredly into the alcove between the toilet and the cabinets, one trembling arm draped over the seat and the other hand clutching his knee, eyes shut tightly against the light and the nausea and pain.

“Ky, hey, hey, oh, fuck, baby, shit, did you twist your knee? Okay, you’re okay, hold on-“

Kyle leaned over to retch again, choking out “YOU SMELL WRONG” because that’s all he could manage between gasps.

Stan yanked his shirt off and threw it through the open door into the hallway, past where Moose was watching with wide eyes from the threshold. “Okay, I’m sorry, is that better? Here.” He gently eased Kyle’s hand away from his leg, carefully straightening it out. “God, yeah, it’s already swelling.”

“WHY do I have to LIVE IN THIS GODDAMN FLESH PRISON?!?” Kyle slammed his fist against the floor, frustrated beyond belief. Stan caught his hand before he could do it again.

“Shh, Ky, c’mon. You’re okay, it’s fine.”

Seeing his husband like this, sick, aggravating his bad knee mid vomit, broke Stan’s heart. But he had him. He had him and wouldn’t let go. Was that dramatic? Absolutely. But when the fuck was he not dramatic about Kyle’s health?

“THAT FUCKING STUPID ASS NURSE!” Kyle was yelling. “Sending me sick kids, thinking they were just trying to get out of class, that BITCH!”

“Baby, dude, calm down, man, breathe.”

“YOU’RE ONE TO FUCKING TALK!”

Alright, point to Kyle. Stan sighed as Kyle heaved over the toilet again, expelling nothing but water. They really needed to get something in him before he wound up needing the hospital again. Stan gently rubbed his husband’s back as he hiccuped and cried, clearly feeling betrayed by his body. A few minutes of heavy breathing, and Kyle was pulling back up. “I- I think I’m d-done.”

“Alright dude, I’m gonna get you up now, that okay?”

“Mhm”

Very, very carefully, Stan hauled Kyle from the floor, mindful not to move his knee too much and going slow in case of another bout of nausea. Moose trotted into the bedroom after his dads, obviously distressed seeing Kyle cry and immediately curling back up against the redhead when Stan set him down.

Stan was honestly a little nauseous himself, because Kyle’s frustrated tears never failed to make him emotional too. But he knew what to do here, he reminded himself. Fever was coming down, leg flare up was pretty routine, Kyle would rant it out if he had to and Stan would be his yes-man, and liquids were probably going to be the staple for the rest of the day.

He rolled up a throw blanket and propped it under Kyle’s leg, taking some strain off the irritated joint and kissing his husband’s kneecap when he did so. “You want ice, babe?”

“Yes I want fucking ice,” Kyle mumbled, arms draped over his eyes.

Stan could admit to enjoying taking care of Kyle when he fucked up his knee; pissed off Kyle was cute. “Aw, baby, I got you.” He grabbed the takeout bag from the nightstand too, not knowing if the bbq smell was lingering there too. “I’ll stick this in the fridge for when you want something solid, okay? How ‘bout another Ensure?”

Kyle grumbled something inaudible that Stan took as a yes. Poor thing was so upset. But he had every right to be, and Stan would never be annoyed at him for that.

Downstairs, he debated making his husband a smoothie, but the blender was loud, and his head probably already hurt from throwing up. Instead, he just grabbed an ice pack and a shake (strawberry, still gross but the flavor Kyle hated the least), taking the time to scribble out the nutrition information, just in case. That practice was pretty much habit at this point; he’d started ripping off or crossing out the calories on food for Kyle when they were fourteen, when his favorite person was recovering from his eating disorder, and even if he’d been more than fine for a longgggg time, Stan was prone to reverting to the past. When Kyle wasn’t okay, for whatever reason, food lore got crossed out.

“Dude, you up?”

“Mm”

“Shit, babe.” Stan knelt by the bed to carefully apply the ice, reaching a hand up to thumb away a falling tear. “You just mad?”

“Fucking pissed,” Kyle moaned. “It’s not enough that I have the goddamn plague?!? I have to have to fuck my leg up too? My parents are, like twice our age and even they don’t have fucking arthritis!” Kyle pointed two middle fingers to the ceiling as a ‘fuck you’ to god, which was actually pretty funny, but Stan didn’t laugh. That would only make his husband madder.

“Ky, c’mon.” Stan cupped under his head to kiss his cheek, relishing in the subtle smile that action brought. “And your parents didn’t shred tendons and refuse to do physical therapy.”

“I am damn well aware my goddamn arthritis is my own fault, Staniel.” But he sighed contentedly, adjusting the ice pack before leaning back against the pillows. “That helps. I’m sorry.”

Declaring the anger over for now, Stan climbed into bed beside him. “Don’t be sorry, dude. How’s your stomach?”

“I don’t fucking feel good.”

“I know, dude, can you drink a little water? We have to keep you hydrated.”

“It’ll just come back up.”

“Not necessarily.”

Moose crawled up between his dads, small furry head on Kyle’s shoulder, knowing he needed comfort. Kyle rubbed his face on the cat. “Babyman, did I scare you last night? I did, huh?”

“Dude,” Stan started, “he’s fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine. Drink something and don’t move your leg.”

“I didn’t shred my tendons, by the way.” Kyle protested. “I just tore some shit a little.”

“Enough that it’s a problem even now.”

“See, you get it.”

Stan laughed. “Quit being a dick and go to sleep, baby. You know you’ll feel better. I’m right here, dude, whatever you need.”

“I’m not being a dick, I’m being contrary.”

“Same difference.”

“Mm.”

God, poor Kyle, pissed off, sick, having a flare up on top of everything else. “Dude, what do you need?”

“Leg hurts.”

“We have a pack on it, dude. Maybe some ibuprofen? You should take some for the fever anyway.”

“It hurts.”

Stan started to gently rub his partner’s knee. “I know, babe. I know it’s hurting.”

“I hit it on the floor.”

“I know you did.”

“Fuck this shit.”

Kyle knew he was being a total dramatic asshole, but he didn’t care. God had fucked him over; he could be a dick. That made sense. “I’m mad, dude.”

“That’s okay.”

And no he didn’t have the right to be mad. Stan was being so sweet. Always. Any time Kyle’s meat suit betrayed him and he got upset about it, Stan was there, doting and adorable as ever. “I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep.”

“Something bad’s gonna happen.”

“Oh, dude.” Stan wrapped around him, carefully. “We’re not OCD spiraling. We’re not. A little rest, alright?”

In actuality, Kyle was too tired to argue.

It had to have been a few hours when Stan felt Kyle stir against his chest, swinging over to get out of bed… and promptly falling with a loud “FUCK!”

“Ky?”

“I FUCKING FORGOT ABOUT MY GODDAMN LEG!!!”

Stan sprang off the bed then too, getting on the floor beside his hyperventilating husband. “Dude, shhh, okay, okay, straighten it out.”

Sobbing, Kyle did. “D-don’t, freak, okay? I moved it weird, that’s all.”

“It’s fine, dude. Look at me. I’m not freaking out.” He was just doing a good job hiding it. Stan hated seeing Kyle cry, emotional, probably still feverish and nauseated, trying to get up in the middle of the night and falling on his knee, just the perfect storm of fucked up shit. But Kyle needed to stay calm, above all else. “What did you need, dude? Let me help you.”

“Water,” Kyle mumbled dejectedly.

“And guess what? You have me for that.” Stan carefully felt around his husband’s leg. “Can I turn a light on?”

Kyle responded by throwing up into the trash can, which had Stan gagging too. Fuck. Honestly, he was surprised he lasted so long without sympathy puking. “Hold on, baby.”

Stan rushed to the bathroom to empty his own stomach, somehow only just noticing that he still hadn’t put a shirt on from earlier. And Kyle hadn’t said anything about him wearing “outside pants” in bed, either, which was probably the best indicator of how sick he was.

Flushing down the panic induced vomit, Stan stood and glared at his reflection while he rinsed his mouth out, gulping a few handfuls of water from the sink. He had to keep it together. He needed a plan. Okay. Get Kyle back in bed, check his temperature and blood sugar, go downstairs to fill up his water and feed Moose, go from there.

Kyle had curled up on the floor back in the bedroom, and Moose had the zoomies. Stan sighed.

“Dude, okay, let’s get up.”

“Moving sucks ass.”

“I know it does, babe, but the bed is better than the floor.”

“Quit being right,” Kyle mumbled, allowing himself to be helped back under the covers. Stan snagged his readers from the nightstand, flipping on the lamp and grabbing the thermometer too.

“Okay, melmë, let’s see.”

Kyle smiled a little. “You look like a dad.”

“I am a dad,” he reminded him. Even if he’d bemoaned needing reading glasses and his body getting softer with age, his sentimental side was happy he had made it this far in life, especially with Kyle at his side. “Our son is bouncing off the walls as we speak. Open.”

Down to 100.3, thank whoever the fuck was up there. Maybe he should be thanking Kyle’s God, not having any attachment to one of his own. When he’d first started AA and found that part of the whole thing was putting things in the hands of a higher power, he had posed the question of what to do if you weren’t particularly religious to his sponsor. Mark had said “hell, put your faith in the doorknob if you want. Got you in here, didn’t it?”

“What’s the damage?” Kyle inquired.

“Definitely better. You want to check your levels or can I?”

Kyle slowly opened his eyes. “I got it, sweetheart, you’ve been doing so much.”

“Because I want to.”

“I’m difficult.”

Stan brought Kyle’s hand up to his lips and kissed it. “It so isn’t your fault that you got sick, or that you hurt your knee, or that you have diabetes. In sickness and in health, right?” Kyle’s fond grin only grew, and Stan decided to let up on the overbearingness. He snatched Moose up quickly on the cat’s next lap around the room. “I’m filling your water and feeding the dragon, okay? Be right back.”

So he had sweat out most of the fever, it seemed like. Judging by how sticky he felt, Kyle was fairly certain he was over the worst. At least in terms of the fucking stomach flu. His leg was a different story.

It was dim in the bedroom with only a sliver of moonlight slipping through the window, and the soft light from the lamp, but he could feel that he’d aggravated his knee pretty bad. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. The cartilage felt like it was grinding when he shifted. Kyle groaned in frustration, debating trying to hop over to the closet for his brace, but deciding against it, because Stan would flip his lid if he saw him standing. And considering what his blood sugar was at, being vertical was a bad idea anyway.

Said husband returned to the room. “I come bearing gifts for the king!”

Dork. Freshly refilled water, a KMBS, sleeve of crackers. Stan presented the juice. “Your elixir, melda târ. And-“ he beelined for the top of the closet, clearly having read Kyle’s mind.

“Thank you, my most dutiful and trusted of knights.” Kyle let him secure the knee brace, watching as those careful, strong, gentle hands worked, as Stan leaned down to kiss his leg when he was done. His Stan. His sweet Sir Marshwalker.

“Oh, shit, dude, are you crying? Does it hurt that much?” Stan was up by his face again. Kyle shook his head.

“It’s not that; I just- I really fucking love you,” he sobbed.

“Aw, baby, come here.” Stan climbed into bed and wrapped around him again, avoiding touching his husband’s stomach or leg. A little jingle of Moose’s collar announced their boy’s return to the bedroom, a tiny *prrrt* as the cat settled back at Kyle’s side. “You’re not as warm as you were, Ky, I think you’re getting better. That’s good, my love, you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Kyle murmured against him, damp eyelashes tickling Stan’s chest. “You still don’t have a shirt on.”

Stan laughed. So he had noticed. “You complaining?”

“You know I’m not.”

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sneezingfetishftw-fics · 1 month

Text

Insufferable (5/7)

Getting close to the endgame here, I think! I’ve been excited about this chapter of the Vox sickfic for a while. Previous chapters: 1 2 3 4

Next chapters: 6 7

Wavs: 1 3

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If Velvette believed in prayer, she would be praying for a miracle right now. Of course, ending up in hell tended to make one think that any god would be unlikely to help out. So she resigned herself to hoping for a new development.

When Vox stumbled out from the bedroom, he was lacking all of the enthusiasm and energy he’d had the previous times. His screen was full of tiny cracks, though it was unclear if this was a broken screen or just a malfunctioning display. The center of his screen had a bright spot but everything else was dull. “Ugh, what time is it?”

“Morning, Vox. It’s 10.”

“Shit,” he said, rubbing his sore head. “Didn’t I have an interview today?”

Velvette shook her head. “That was yesterday, and it’s already taken care of. All you need to do is rest, love.”

Vox sighed and collapsed on the couch, as if he had used up all of the day’s energy just by standing and saying a few words. “I feel fucking awful.”

Velvette just nodded. “I know.”

“And I just…” he paused, turning his head around the room. “Where’s that radio coming from? Why the fuck is there a radio in here?”

“I’m not hearing anything,” Velvette said. “And besides, there’s no more functioning electronics in this room anyway.”

“I could have sworn I heard… hhh’tzzzch!” A small shower of sparks fell from his screen.

“And that’s why there’s no functioning electronics in this room,” she added, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “How’s that virus scan coming?” she asked, approaching his display.

“I have a virus?” Vox’s face froze, not like a broken program but rather like a shattered hope.

“And memory loss.”

“You sure you don’t hear that radio?”

She shook her head. “And hallucinations, apparently.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Val asked, walking in.

“Val, please tell me you hear that fucking obnoxious radio static.”

Val raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck are you talking about? All I hear is your fans whirring like a helicopter.”

“Fucking hell, I can hear his cackling too. Buzzing static and maniacal laughter and… heh’TZZZZCHT! Constant irritation.” He clawed at his arms. Valentino left the room and came back with an anti-itch lotion, rubbing it in generously. “Thanks, Val, but I don’t think that’s actually doing anything.”

Valentino shrugged. “Worth a try. Speaking of worth a try…” he found the volume controls on Vox’s side and turned them down. “Do you still hear the static now?” Vox’s mouth moved in response, but no sound emerged. “Damn it, he’s lost his voice again!” He blew some smoke into Vox’s vents and Velvette stared at him incredulously.

“You turned his speakers down, idiot! Of course you can’t hear him!” It was very strange to watch Vox sneeze with no sound. Just the flickering screen, the odd facial expressions, and the flurry of sparks. Eventually, she turned the volume back up just in time to catch the tail end of the fit.

“HHHH’TDDZZZZZSH! Heh’TZZZCHT! Hhh’TTTTZZZZZZCHHH!” Vox deliberately aimed the last few at Val to express his discomfort, and the other jumped from the shock. “Thanks for nothing,” he groaned, clawing at his throat. He grimaced and launched into a hacking cough, looking incredibly frustrated and confused when it was done. “You guys didn’t suddenly adopt a pet while I was asleep, did you?” Velvette and Val both shook their heads. “And Val, you haven’t seen Angel recently?”

“No, why?”

“Because I have the distinct sensation of fur in my mouth and it just won’t go away no matter what I do. Fucking gross.”

A warning popped up on Vox’s screen. “Sensors appear to be malfunctioning.” Yeah, no shit. Vox’s fans kicked into an even higher gear than the Vees had thought possible and he began to shiver so violently Velvette wondered if he was going to shut down for the fourth time since this disaster began.

“V-V-V-V-V-V…” Velvette and Val made eye contact with each other and then with Vox, having no way to tell which of them he was calling for. “V-V-Val, c-c-could you get me some… hhh’tzzzsh! S-s-some w-water?” Val nodded and came back with a cup of warm water. He handed it to Vox, whereupon it promptly fell out of the weak grip of the TV demon’s trembling hands. “Sorry.” Val began cleaning up the spill and winced when a sneeze from Vox electrocuted him through the puddle. “Sorry again.”

Velvette searched the cupboards for a pitcher with a spout, then filled it with more warm water and poured it into Vox’s mouth. She had to pause a few times to let him swallow, but eventually all the water was in his system. A small smile spread across his dim screen and he seemed a little calmer, though still clearly quite pathetic and uncomfortable.

His eyes went wide as he stared at a spot in the room. “Wait, what? Alastor… no. No, he can’t be here. There’s no way he’d get past security. It’s just… why does it feel so real?” He buried his face in the couch, trying to dull his senses but nothing worked. He began crying again, this time deep, wracking sobs that shook the whole couch as his fist pounded limply against the pillow. “Please, God, no! I can’t do this anymore!” Valentino’s eyes flitted towards the guns, but Velvette shook her head. Vox looked up at both of them, his screen crackling with energy that was somehow both weak and desparate. “How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?”

Before either of them could formulate a response, another warning popped up on the screen. “Virus removal has been halted due to insufficient resources. Recommend upgrading to stronger anti-virus protection… Checking for updates… No updates available. Try again later.” From the way Vox’s face fell so far it was practically off screen, it was clear he was aware of the message. “No! Please! I can’t… I’ll do anything!”

“Oh ho ho, anything, you say? This will be fun.” Velvette and Val winced as the voice rang out through the room, first from the sheer volume of it and then from the realization that now they could hear it too. This was far from the new development Velvette had been hoping for. But it was the new development they would have to face.

#my snezfic #snezbin hotel #I’m so nervous about the next chapter like I’ve had the idea for this twist for a while but actually writing it is nerve wracking #so pls be patient cause it may take me a while #and also your own theories and prompts are welcome as they may help with writers block or at least be fun to read lol #fun fact: shivering & stuttering & pouring water cause too weak to hold a cup happened irl last week #when I went to visit my FWB cause he was having a really bad allergy day

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