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sickficideas · 9 months

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you're losin' me || skk sickfic

ao3! please refer to the tags in the link for content + warnings! sicktember 2023, day 1: hopelessly bad at self care

“’s cold,” Chuuya murmurs quietly, slurred together so much that if Dazai hadn’t known him for seven years, he wouldn’t have understood him.

“I know. Just for a little bit,” Dazai says as he fills the pitcher full of water to gently pour over Chuuya’s head again. He’d really like to properly wash his hair. It’s so caked with dust and dirt and blood, but Dazai doesn’t want him under the water for too long, he’s already shivering. So he’d like to at least brush some of it out.

It’s been a few days since he last used Corruption. Dazai’s made it a habit to check on Chuuya in some way or another after times like that, because recently, he hasn’t been tolerating it well, especially when he uses it for extended periods of time. Sometimes he’ll be too sore to move, sometimes he’ll get sick, sometimes it’s a combination of a few things - no matter the case, it wasn’t always like this.

He thinks Chuuya was already coming down with something before that day, so he wasn’t too surprised to find him passed out on his kitchen floor when he arrived at his penthouse just ten minutes ago.

He has a hundred-and-two-point one-degree fever, which paired with the fatigue and exhaustion from using his ability like that has really, really slowed him down. Dazai had to carry him into the shower even after waking him up, with surprisingly no objection from the latter. His complaint of the temperature just now is the first he’s said to him since he arrived. Chuuya always takes quite a while to come to his senses after he’s like this.

Dazai’s first thought was to shower him because of how filthy he was from their mission just the other day, but it seemed that wasn’t it. He’s covered in sweat from the fever, and Dazai’s fairly certain he wet himself at some point too. Normally, he wouldn’t let Chuuya live something like that down, but it’s a concerning thought that he didn’t even have the energy or will to get up and go to the bathroom.

He opts for the showerhead instead to wash his hair out the best he can, hoping the pressure will help clean it up a little. It’s lukewarm water, to help his fever, but he understands it’s probably pretty cold with the chills he’s feeling - and Chuuya normally showers with scalding hot water anyway.

Chuuya groans and pulls his head away once the water from the shower head hits him, and the way his eyes screw shut tells Dazai he’s probably got some sort of head injury, or at the very least, a headache. Maybe both.

“Want me to stop?” Dazai asks, trying to adjust the water pressure a bit so it’s not as harsh, and Chuuya relaxes just a bit.

He’s taken note of how Chuuya’s left shoulder is hanging slightly lower than it should. He’s been so out of it that Dazai hasn’t noticed, but he grabs his upper arm with his free hand and he’s met with a hiss. He’s probably dislocated his shoulder.

“You’re a mess,” Dazai sighs. Chuuya usually isn’t the type to avoid medical treatment. Dazai has his own reasons for doing so, but Chuuya generally takes good care of his health, so he’s not sure what happened here. Maybe that last use of Corruption really took him down. After all, he’s not sure how long he was passed out in his kitchen.

He shut off the water and hands the shower head up. He wants to tell Chuuya what he’s about to do, but he thinks it might be better in the end to just do it and get it over with, and apologize after.

So he does it. He puts him into position against the wall as quickly as he can before Chuuya can catch on, and he yelps from the pain as soon as Dazai hears it pop into place. He’s sure it’s very painful, it’s been a few days since it was dislocated and there’s no way the pain and swelling hasn’t gotten worse since then.

Chuuya leans forward into Dazai, and he's shaking much more than he was before, and Dazai holds him against his chest.

“I’m sorry. You know how bad those can get if you wait too long, Chuuya,” he says quietly. He hates how much he’s shivering. The whimpers of pain hurt him to hear, although he’d never admit it. He’s careful not to jostle his shoulder too much as he holds him.

Truthfully, Dazai hasn’t slept well at all since their mission, because he hasn’t heard a word from Chuuya. Sometimes Chuuya will read Dazai’s messages without responding when he’s feeling petty, but he didn’t even get that.

This morning, when he threw up last night’s dinner from the anxiety, he decided he needed to come check on Chuuya. Kunikida was even concerned enough to send him home right away.

They stay like that for a while before Dazai decides it’s best to get everything over with and get Chuuya to bed so he can rest properly, rather than on his tiled kitchen floor. He washes his hair, his body, all while Chuuya quietly stays leaned against the corner of the shower wall, shivering every now and then, his eyes unfocused and glassy. He doesn’t voice a single complaint the entire time.

Dazai is happy to finally be able to shut off the lukewarm water and towel dry Chuuya’s hair. Gently, of course, he doesn’t want to dizzy him on top of his suspected head injury. He’s already completely off-kilter.

He pats him dry and helps him over to the adjacent bedroom. Chuuya isn’t strong enough to walk on his own yet but Dazai keeps a hand on his waist to keep him steady. He sits down right at the corner, and Dazai backs up to get a good look at him.

He’s glad there’s no major injuries at least, nothing worse than some scrapes and little cuts, but he’s covered in dark bruises, which make the pale pallor of his skin much more obvious. He’s sure that’s part of the fever, but he can’t pin down exactly why he has a fever to begin with. Was he really sick before their mission? Does he have some sort of internal injury that’s gotten infected? Did using Corruption cause this?

Dazai grabs a random t-shirt and a pair of boxers from Chuuya’s closet and helps to dress him. It’s like dressing a doll. Chuuya isn’t unconscious, he’s still half-awake, at least, but he doesn’t make any effort to get dressed himself. He just lets Dazai do it and aids him here and there.

“Hey,” Dazai says, cupping Chuuya’s cheek and lifting his head just a bit to get a good look at his eyes. He’s not entirely there, but his eyes shift to look at Dazai after a few seconds. “You’re scaring me a little, Slug. Can you talk to me?”

Chuuya’s expression scrunches up a little like he’s confused, and Dazai’s stomach drops. He’s almost worried about him hallucinating. Dazai can’t count the number of times Chuuya has confused Dazai for one of his dead friends while suffering from a fever or some sort of major injury.

“Chuuya,” Dazai starts, running his fingers through his still slightly damp hair, brushing his bangs out of his face. They definitely need a trim. “Can you tell me my name?”

“Mackerel,” Chuuya grumbles under his breath, but his expression doesn’t change. He looks like he would fall asleep if Dazai pushed him backward.

That’s answer enough for him. As long as he’s not hallucinating.

“Okay,” Dazai says with a quiet sigh of relief. “You need to lay down, alright? I’ll see if you have athletic tape somewhere for that shoulder.”

Dazai trusts his mental state enough to leave him on his own for a few minutes while he goes through Chuuya’s bathroom drawers to find what he’s looking for, and thankfully, it appears in the third drawer without too much searching. Chuuya tends to keep things in his penthouse pretty orderly, but he’s noticed signs recently of things being a little out of place. Nothing major - a roll of toilet paper down with the cleaning products, a hairbrush on the floor, things Dazai would never think twice about - but they’re also things he knows Chuuya would never let slide.

He wanders back into the bedroom as he starts to take some of the tape off the roll, but Chuuya is still sitting there at the edge of the bed, his head hanging down, swaying ever so slightly. Dazai worries for a second he’s about to pass out, until he sees the hand pressed against his tummy.

"Dazai," Chuuya murmurs with a gruff moan. "'M gonna - gonna throw up."

Dazai appreciates the warning.

Chuuya somehow manages to hold it back until Dazai slides onto the bed next to him with the bin from his bathroom. He breathes over the bin for half a minute or so, letting the saliva drip down over the plastic. Dazai takes his free hand and starts to rub over his back, gently, and Chuuya groans at the feeling, leaning back into it just a bit and he spits a wad of saliva into the bin.

"Deep breaths, Chuuya," Dazai says gently.

Chuuya does as he’s told, taking in a few shaky breaths that aren’t nearly as deep as they should be, but soon enough, a gag follows a retch, and a torrent of vomit gushes into the bin.

“There you go. That’s good,” Dazai says quietly, patting Chuuya’s hair back as he throws up. Chuuya’s weak tolerance for alcohol makes him no stranger to throwing up like this, but this is the last thing he needs right now. The nausea is crystal clear on his face, and the pained moans that escape his lips between streams of vomit tell him it hurts, too. "You have anything here for nausea?"

"I don' need anythin'," Chuuya breathes out, spitting up a mouthful of stomach bile into the bin before he straightens himself up, eyes screwed shut and hand still heavy against his sore belly. "Jus' needed to get that out."

"If you say so," Dazai says, setting the bin down on the floor.

Chuuya somehow manages to gather the energy to crawl to the middle of the bed and collapse there, sinking into the pillow with a little whine.

He's lying down with his injured shoulder facing up, and Dazai takes the opportunity to carefully roll up his sleeve to apply the athletic tape. He watches Chuuya's face tense up as he does it. He can be as gentle as he wants, he's sure it hurts regardless.

Dazai sits beside Chuuya's shaky, curled-up form for a while, petting his slowly drying hair as Chuuya starts to relax just a bit, enough to give Dazai some relief.

He worries about him. Chuuya used to handle Corruption just fine, but if this is all really all just from the aftermath, even days later…

“Why didn’t you go to a doctor?” Dazai asks with a heavy sigh. He’s not sure why he cares. Chuuya’s an adult, he can take care of himself. And he usually always does.

“Dunno,” Chuuya croaks. His voice sounds scratchy.

“You don’t know?” Dazai confirms, a brow raised. “I found you laying in your own piss and I don’t have any clue how long you were there for.”

“Can’t remember,” Chuuya elaborates after a few moments of silence. He’s starting to sound a little more coherent, which is a good sign, but he doesn’t like what he’s just said.

Dazai’s shoulders sink. “Yeah?”

“I jus’ remember leavin’ with you,” Chuuya says quietly. He pauses, like he’s trying to see if he can collect anything else from his memory, but he gives up. “And…and then, the shower.”

“So you don’t have any clue what happened in between, huh?” Dazai says. Chuuya didn’t seem that out of it when they met before the mission happened. He wasn’t himself, but Chuuya’s never forward about his feelings, so Dazai has a hard time guessing if he was like that mentally, or from an oncoming illness.

“Nuh-uh,” Chuuya mumbles.

Dazai bites his lip. That can’t be good. “Has this been happening every time?”

Chuuya is quiet for a moment, almost like he’s waiting for Dazai to elaborate. Maybe he’s just confused. “Every time what?”

“Every time you use Corruption,” Dazai reminds him.

“S’that what happened?” Chuuya yawns. Dazai watches his eyelids start to fall just a bit.

Dazai feels sick. He didn’t even put those pieces together, with everything that’s going on with him? Part of him wants to believe this is just from a head injury he suffered during this mission, but he’s been getting worse about using Corruption.

Surely he’s fine. If Chuuya really thought something was wrong with himself, he would take care of it.

“My shoulder’s killin’ me,” he murmurs, adjusting it just a bit before realizing moving it at all causes too much pain for it to be worth it.

“No kidding,” Dazai sighs. "I'll get some ice packs. That might help."

Dazai slips out of the bed, and heads for the kitchen to look for something he can use. He knows there’s an ice pack or two in the freezer, Chuuya’s needed them for injuries before, but upon looking in the freezer, he finds it’s nearly empty. There’s a box or two, but normally, Chuuya has lots of things in here.

He opens the refrigerator out of curiosity and finds it to be the same way. Chuuya certainly has the money to be eating out every night, so maybe that’s what he’s been doing, but he likes cooking. It’s strange for him to really have nothing. His stomach twists. He hates that feeling.

Dazai takes two ice packs from the freezer before he hears Chuuya’s ringtone, coming from the bedroom. He remembers seeing Chuuya’s cell phone on the nightstand. He wonders who could be calling him.

Dazai leans in the doorway as he watches Chuuya’s uninjured arm reach for the cell phone, and of course, he’s hiding the screen from him with an annoyed scowl.

"Hey," Chuuya says through a sigh once he answers, laying back against the pillows. The voice says something, but it’s not loud enough for Dazai to be able to figure out who. "I know. 'M sorry. Haven't been feeling so great."

Dazai's glad he's being honest, at least.

"You don't need'a come. 'M fine, just gonna rest today," Chuuya says. “I’ll see ya tomorrow. Love you. Okay?”

The voice says something back, and soon enough, Chuuya tosses his phone to the side and lays his arm over his eyes with a heavy sigh.

"Love you?" Dazai repeats as he wanders over to the bed, climbing back in next to him to lay one ice pack under his shoulder, and the other right on top of it.

"Mhm," Chuuya says he shudders just a bit at the cold feeling, but he relaxes soon enough. "You're allowed to have a side piece too. So don't start."

"I didn't start anything," Dazai chuckles. He's referring to Kunikida, he thinks. "Who?"

"Who what?" Chuuya groans.

"Who was that?" Dazai clarifies.

"Who was what?" Chuuya huffs. He’s clearly annoyed, but he really doesn’t seem to know what Dazai is talking about.

Dazai bites his lip. Maybe he just needs to be reminded. "On the phone, Chuuya."

Chuuya takes his arm off of his face, revealing a genuinely confused expression. "The hell you talkin' about, Mackerel?"

Now Dazai feels like he's going to throw up. "Nothing, Slug."

Is Chuuya losing his memory?

Is using Corruption doing this to him?

Is this a head injury? Is it just because he’s been passed out for a while?

What is he going to do if Chuuya loses his memory?

"I'll be right back."

Dazai tries to be as nonchalant as possible as he leaves Chuuya’s bedroom, trailing off to the guest bathroom on the other side of his penthouse, out of earshot from Chuuya, because he thinks he’s really going to throw up. His stomach twists as he opens the door and he hastily leans over the toilet, and then gags once or twice before his stomach clenches and the bit of food he had for breakfast comes up.

He stays standing, his hands on his knees and he chokes up whatever he can manage. His head swims and these concerns repeat in his mind as fast as a car wheel going a thousand miles an hour. Why does it matter to him, if Chuuya loses his memory? He doesn’t need Chuuya. He’s fine without Chuuya. Clearly, Chuuya is the one who needs him.

At some point his legs get tired and he’s just left breathing heavily over the toilet. He doesn’t even have the will to flush, and part of him thinks he should go back to Chuuya, but his legs give out and he curls up in the corner where the wall and the shower door meet.

It’s not long before he hears the bathroom door creak open.

"Did you puke?" Chuuya asks, his voice shaky. Dazai’s tempted to lie, but he’s sure he can see the evidence in the toilet.

"Had too much to eat for lunch,” Dazai says. He knows Chuuya won’t believe him. Maybe he wants to lead him on. He doesn’t know.

"That's not like you," Chuuya murmurs. He’s leaning against the door frame, holding an ice pack up to his shoulder. "What's the real reason? You anxious about somethin’?"

He does throw up when he's anxious. "No, no. My stomach just...y’know.”

"Dazai," Chuuya sighs.

Chuuya drags himself into the bathroom and sits down beside Dazai with a pained groan. He feels warm next to Dazai as he leans against him, laying his head on Dazai’s shoulder. He huffs, sounding a little more than exhausted, like it’s taken a great effort for him to get here. “Can’t believe you made me walk all the way over here when I feel like shit.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” Dazai insists with a half-smile. “You worrying about me, Slug?”

“Yeah, you ran out of my room out of nowhere,” Chuuya huffs.

Dazai finds some solace in the fact that he hasn’t forgotten that.

“I’m worried about you too,” Dazai says quietly, and he’s not sure why he would say something like that out loud. He’s disgusted with himself, it almost makes him want to throw up again. Being so vulnerable with another person is so unadmirable.

“Bout me?” Chuuya starts, lifting his head and turning to look at Dazai, even if it seems to be filled with lead. “‘M fine, ‘Samu. I always feel like shit after Corruption.”

"I think you should see a doctor," Dazai says. He almost wishes he could lean his head on Chuuya’s shoulder, but doing that would likely break his neck. A shame, really.

"'Bout what," Chuuya sighs. “Thought you were playin’ doctor.”

"Your memory,” Dazai says quietly, feeling his stomach start to twist again.

Chuuya is quiet for a few moments. "My memory's fine."

"I'm serious, Chuuya,” Dazai says. He hates being serious.

"'M serious too, 'Samu. I don't need’a see a doctor. I’ll be fine in a few days," Chuuya grumbles. He’s really starting to sound annoyed, but Dazai is having a very hard time letting this go. "Quit worryin' about me."

"Do you remember who called you earlier?" Dazai bites. He doesn’t want to sound vicious. Maybe the bitter taste of the stomach acid in the back of his throat is making him sound that way. His stomach is never going to give him a break, at this rate.

Another pause. "What the hell're you talkin' about?"

“Someone called you, Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs, pressing his palms against his eyelids because his eyes are starting to burn and he would rather throw up on Chuuya than cry in front of him. “I asked you who it was after you hung up and you didn’t know what I was talking about, and you still don’t.”

Chuuya is quiet again.

“Can you…can you get out? Please?” Dazai mumbles, keeping his face concealed from Chuuya. He hates the way he feels. He’s not physically hurting anywhere, besides maybe his stomach, but this worry and anxiety is just as painful as any wound. “I need to throw up again.”

“‘M not leavin’ you, Mackerel,” Chuuya says quietly, not seeming to care much that Dazai tried to kick him out of his own bathroom. Dazai thinks he’s started to realize that he might be contributing to the fact that Dazai’s stomach is twisting and turning so uncomfortably,

Dazai feels it, hot in the back of his mouth, and he would really rather just swallow it, but he stumbles forward and chokes up the stomach bile into the toilet to join the rest. He coughs before he can manage to gag again. It really burns, it hurts, tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he’s telling himself that throwing up right now is the only reason that’s happening.

Chuuya is still beside him, despite how sick he is himself, a steady hand on his back, mumbling some comforting words that Dazai can’t quite decipher.

“I’ll call a doctor, ‘kay? Maybe you can get looked at too,” Chuuya says quietly once Dazai is just left huffing out hot breaths over the toilet.

Dazai shakes his head. The idea of that almost makes him gag. “No, I don’t…I’m fine.”

“‘M’kay,” Chuuya says, to Dazai’s surprise. Dazai thinks he’s gotten the hint, now. “You still nauseous? I’ll get somethin’ for you.”

Dazai shakes his head again and somehow manages to force himself onto his shaky legs without much help. His stomach is still all out of sorts, but he knows nausea medication won’t be able to help. “Can we go lay down?”

Chuuya nods with a little sigh, using his ability to stand himself up without too much effort, taking Dazai’s hand like he’s leading him to his bedroom. Dazai’s been there a million times, there’s really no reason for him to do this, but he squeezes his hand tight. It feels nice.

“I’ll be right back. Gonna get a glass of water,” Chuuya says once Dazai curls up into the bed. Dazai’s facing away from him, but he can hear Chuuya take his phone before he wanders out of the bedroom.

Dazai knows he’s calling someone.

“Hey,” Chuuya starts. He sounds far away, like he’s in the kitchen, but Dazai can still hear him fairly well. “‘M sorry. I know I said I didn’t need anythin’, but…”

The voice says something, and Chuuya sighs, answering with a defeated yeah.

Dazai feels like he can relax a little more, and his stomach doesn’t hurt so much.

He curls up in the bed as if it’s his own, and before long, Chuuya returns to do the same, lying close beside Dazai, but far enough that Dazai can still see his face. He looks miserable. If he were standing, Dazai thinks he would certainly pass out.

“You look like shit,” Chuuya grumbles, his nose scrunched.

“I was just thinking about how much you look like shit,” Dazai tells him.

“At least I’ve got a good excuse,” Chuuya huffs. Dazai can’t argue with that, Chuuya’s the one with a fever. “You’re just worried about me. Freak.”

Dazai ducks his head in and cuddles up closer to Chuuya, a little flattered that he’s remembering that despite everything being so touch-and-go right now. His warmth is still a bit concerning, but it’s almost comforting. Dazai doesn’t know why, but he’s almost too tired to care.

“Take better care of yourself,” Dazai mumbles quietly.

“Take your own advice,” Chuuya says back, sounding just as exhausted as he looks. “Get some rest, shitty Mackerel.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

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triforce-of-mischief · 9 months

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Mirror had been watching Mage stumble around all morning, and he had frankly had enough. The next time Mage wandered close enough, Mirror grabbed his arm and waited a few seconds too long for Mage to register the touch.

"What's gotten into you?" Mirror demanded, letting Mage go once it was clear that he wasn't going to move past swaying on his feet.

The older man finally looked at Mirror, who instantly noticed bleary eyes and a runny nose.

"Oh my gods- did you catch Mini's bug?"

Mage raised a finger and opened his mouth as if to speak, then twitched and sneezed into his hand. He and Mirror both stared at the small pile of confetti in his palm.

Paper and sparkles fell from Mage's fingers as he signed, "Not contagious."

He almost looked smug.

Mirror blinked.

Then, "Oh my gods- you're sick, stop using your magic! You're hopelessly bad at self-care, you need to sit and relax and-"

#mage does not go easily #bonus links #bonus mage #bonus mirror #sicktember 2023 #sicktember day 1 #fable writes

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acasualcrossfade · 9 months

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Hopelessly Bad at Self Care

Sicktember Day 1: "Hopelessly Bad at Self Care"

Stranger Things: Steve Harrington/ Eddie Munson

Words: 500 | Rating: G | CW: eye pain

@sicktember | divider art by @saradika

Summary: Steve’s eyes hurt from reading on the computer so Eddie finds a perfect solution.

Find me on Ao3!

Steve sat on the couch with his laptop, struggling to make sense of the dancing words of the document in front of him as Eddie sat next to him. Steve worked in admissions and was put in charge of reading and editing a few new grants for the next year. The formal language of grants was new to him, and he could feel the throbbing headache that came with reading such small print on the computer.

Even with his attempts to increase the font and lower the brightness, fifty-five pages of print was becoming a little too much for his eyes. Rubbing only made the pain worse and the blue light glasses hadn’t helped enough to warrant wearing them.

His eyes were burning like twin wildfires as he squinted. Giving up, Steve sat back with a groan of annoyance. He’d have to just wake up early to finish it.

“You want me to put in those dry eye drops we got?” Eddie asked.

Steve turned to glance at him.

Eddie wore his usual sweatpants and tee, and the headset for the game he was playing was balanced around his neck. He sat in an easy folded seat with the Switch controller balanced on his knee. His paused game of Mario Kart blinked on their TV.

“Yeah, but I forgot them at my desk.” Steve blinked hard and squeezed his eyes shut before opening them, hoping the tingling pain would subside, but the burning continued.

Eddie closed out of his game and set the controller aside to turn to Steve. “I’ll pick some up tomorrow so there’s some at the house. But c’mere lemme see ‘em?”

Steve scooted closer to Eddie. Slowly but surely, Steve pried his eyes open and winced at the way they seemed to sizzle in protest. He blinked, and tried to keep them open so Eddie could inspect them.

“Shit, Stevie, they’re an angry red,” Eddie sympathized. “Can I?” Eddie reached for the laptop at Steve’s nod and pulled it onto his lap. “You said you’ve got fifty five pages to go through? And this is just one grant?”

Steve tilted his head back against the couch. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I can read it to you,” Eddie suggested, as he scrolled through the document. “Geez, they fit a lot in these. But if you’re able to listen and take notes, I don’t mind reading it.”

Steve shook his head slowly in protest. “Eds, it’s your time off. You should be kicking Dustin’s ass in Mario Kart.”

“Your eyes look like they want to fall out of your skull,” Eddie pressed. “You said you’ve got like, what, another week or so of this?”

“Yeah, meeting’s at the end of next week. And I’ve got three grants to go over.”

Eddie winced, and started reading.

“Eds…” Steve cracked open one red eye. “You really don’t have to.”

“I want to.” Eddie gave Steve’s knee a squeeze.

So Steve nodded and closed his eyes as Eddie began to read.

#sicktember2023 #sicktember day 1 #hopelessly bad at self care #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steddie #acasualcrossfade writes #thunderously halo writes #divider art by saradika #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington whump

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faofinn · 9 months

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1. Hopelessly Bad At Self-Care

Fao had been home from hospital about two weeks now, and was settling into life again. It had been slow and shaky to start, unused to living with Fred and Sheila and relying on them so much for everything. He felt 17 again, and it frustrated him. But they’d done so much for him, been through so much because of him, he was nothing but grateful for them. That didn’t make it easy, though, and there had been plenty of shouting from both parties.

But things had settled now, Fao’s head had started to get better, but it still wasn’t perfect. He struggled to look after himself, still struggled to find a point in why he was still alive. He neglected his pain meds more often than not, desperate to feel something other than guilt or worse, nothing.

He’d been slowly building up more and more with what he did day to day, more walking, things around the house. He’d done a lot yesterday, gone for a walk out that had ended up being further than anticipated, and he was paying for it today. He wanted his proper meds, the strong stuff they’d sent him home with, but he couldn’t find it. He’d put it somewhere, and now he didn’t know where, and he was in pain and overwhelmed. He’d tried to do more that morning, stand and make himself breakfast and coffee and have a cigarette, and all it had done was made it worse. He felt so frustrated, and uncomfortable, and useless.

He’d gone back to bed, feeling sick and awful, and curled up on top of the duvet, face buried in the pillows as he tried not to sob, clutching Eeyore tightly. The bad thoughts he thought he’d left in hospital were teasing him, calling for an easier way out, and that just made it worse. He didn’t want that, he just wanted the pain to stop, and it just wouldn’t stop.

Sheila had tried her best to not smother Fao, his breakdown over his breakfast not unnoticed. She'd already been told off for hovering, so left him alone as much as she could, though her every instinct screamed not to. She let Fao return to his room, though had expected him to take his medications to at least get a little relief. When he didn’t come back out, she grabbed his bottle from the kitchen cupboard, from where he'd asked her to put it, and headed to his room.

She could hear Fao trying so hard not to break, and it brought a lump to her own throat. She swallowed thickly, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Fao?" She knocked gently. "It's just me. Can I come in?"

His face buried in the pillows, he didn’t even have the energy to tell Sheila to piss off. In fact, he actually rather wanted some comfort from his mum.

“Yeah.” He said thickly, his voice muffled.

"Hey." She murmured softly, pushing the door open and moving to sit on the edge of the bed. She reached to run her fingers through his hair with a sigh. "When did you take your meds last?"

“Didn’t.” He whimpered. “Didn’t need it an’ then couldn’t find it.”

"Oh, sweetheart." She soothed. "Why didn't you say? Do you want some? I've got it here."

“Oh.” He sniffed. “Please.”

She hummed softly to herself as she drew up a dose before passing the syringe to her son. "Here, take this first, and then I've got some juice."

He forced himself to sit up, rolling onto his back first with a whine. He reached for the syringe, taking it with a grimace, and followed it with the juice Sheila gave him, feeling pathetic.

“Thank you.” He mumbled. “Hug?”

"You're welcome." She murmured softly. "Where do you want me? I'm staying with you."

“Don’t have to stay.”

"Why wouldn't I?"

“Sick of me.”

"That's just the dick part of your brain talking." She chided gently. "Come on, get comfortable. I have snacks in my hoodie pocket, and I've got a film I want to watch."

He laid back down with a sigh, curling up with his Eeyore again. The nausea hadn’t gone anywhere, but he wasn’t about to ask Sheila for his antisickness, so he just settled down. Maybe some sleep would help, if he could get it. He curled into her, burying his face against her.

"There you go." She hummed. "You just relax, try and get some rest. Do you need anything else?"

He was quiet for a minute, seeing if he could ignore the nausea. But it was still there, and the painkillers had made it worse. “Antisickness?” He asked softly.

"Which one?"

“Whichever.”

"Here, then. Swallow the cyclizine, and then you can melt the ondansetron." She passed them to him from her pocket.

“Juice?” He asked, taking them from her.

"Here you are."

He swallowed the Cyclizine with the juice, wincing at the taste, and then took the ondansetron to melt. That wasn’t great either, but it would help the nausea. He snuggled back down on the bed, curling back into his mum with a sigh. “Sorry.”

"Don't you apologise."

“I am sorry though.”

"What for? Being hopelessly bad at self care? Because that's the only thing you've done wrong, and we all know you've got a problem with that."

“Still.” He said, sniffing.

"Hey, you’re not going to cry on me, are you?" She nudged him gently. "We're being as happy as we can be, positive thinking and all that bulshit, yeah?"

“Sorry.” His voice cracked. “Jus’ feel so shit.”

She drew shapes on his skin with one hand, the other playing with his hair. "I know, I know. It is shit, really, I know."

“I want to be better.”

"Look how far you've come."

“Not far enough.”

"You're home, you're here. That's more than far enough for today."

He sighed. “Love you.”

"I love you too, Fao." She stretched down to press a kiss to his messy hair. "I'm so very proud of you."

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whosmurphy · 9 months

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Sicktember #1

Hopelessly bad at self care

i felt bad yesterday so have a drabble now :p

Doc opened the door to the garage. Einstein welcomed him, waving his tail at a quick pace, barking. Doc heard a single cough. "Hi, Doc" Marty's voice was lower than normal, his words were followed by another cough.

"Marty, I told you to stay in bed." Doc sighed, seeing his friend at the table, scribbling something. "Did you take your meds?"

"No." Marty looked away, focusing his eyes on Einstein.

"Did you eat the soup I prepared for you?"

"No?"

"Did you drink the tea for your throat?"

"No…"

"Did you do anything for yourself today?"

"I wrote a song!"

#bttf #back to the future #marty mcfly #drabble #sicktember 2023 #sicktember day 1 #fanfic #doc brown #bttf fanfic #bttf fic

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fletcherwilbury · 2 years

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@sicktember 2022 Day 1: "Do you know how to take care of a sick person?"

Warning for illness, possible parentification, past bullying incident, vomiting, harassment, medication.

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empresskaze · 2 years

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Sicktember Day 1: Do You Even Know How To Take Care Of A Sick Person?

If a prompt has ever screamed Noll and Ren harder, I haven't found it.

~~~~

"Honestly, you might be the....wors..." Ren's tired voice faltered as he sneezed again into the handkerchief that barely moved away from his nose. "Worse person ever...at this..." A thick sniffle followed a glare up at his "caretaker".

"If that's meant to be an insult you'll have to try harder." Noll said causually as he read the box of medicine. "It's not like your instructions were great."

Ren scoffed causing a raspy cough to rip through him. "Top shelf, far cabinet, how exactly is that hard?"

"Didn't specify right or left." Noll shrugged.

Ren pushed his glasses up to massage his tired eyes. "When is Jasper off work?" He sighed.

"Two more hours. Here." Noll handed Ren two pills and a glass of water.

"Great." He muttered leaning back after swallowing the medicine. "Try to be quiet please." Ren rubbed his nose then coughed. "I didn't sleep well last night."

"I never would have guessed." Noll said as he headed to the bedroom door, "You've been such a delight today."

Ren rolled his eyes and hoped by the time he woke, his reluctant caretaker would be gone.

#sicktember #sicktember 2022 #kaze writes: drabbles #kaze writes: noll and ren #sick fic #i don't know how many of these I'll do #but I liked this one #sicktember day 1 #kaze's characters

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bro-ken-spoon · 2 years

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Fic Time!

Hello fellow Marble Hornets enjoyers, I have been posting a fic a day on A03 for the Sicktember event, which you can find the link to here! However! I am most proud of the first one in that series, so I thought I'd go ahead and post that on here for more clout because I crave those sweet, sweet interactions. Anyways! I'm gonna put it here under the cut, but prompt number one was "Do you know how to take care of a sick person?" so if that sounds fun and you like Jam, you might like this one! If you do, feel free to message me here and let me know! Thanks!

“I’m just going to go over there for the night,” Tim was saying as he filled a duffle bag with clothes and an assortment of toiletries. He ignored Brian’s pointed look at him and continued to focus all of his energy on the task at hand.

“Do you really think that’s necessary?” Brian asked, standing in the doorway to Tim’s room and watching him with a bemused smile. He stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Alex said he was going to help out but he’s probably out doing all that director-y stuff he does, I can’t reach him. Someone needs to be there just in case…I mean, you’re gonna be a doctor, right? Would you leave a flu patient alone overnight? It’s just the rational thing to do!” Tim argued. He was right, but he also knew what Brian was getting at.

“And I, the medical student, would not be the obvious choice to help out because….?” Brian asked, that teasing smile still on his face. Tim scowled at him.

“You have to be up early. I can stay as late as I need.” Tim said, zipping up the bag. He pushed past Brian, headed for the front door, but Brian side-stepped in front of him before he could make it out.

“Tim. Do you know how to take care of a sick person?” He asked. Tim scowled again, but Brian didn’t waver.

“Of course I do. I mean, I can figure it out. It can’t be that hard.” Tim tried again to push past Brian, but the latter could be very stubborn when he needed to be. The most infuriating part was that his friendly demeanor hadn’t wavered. He still seemed to genuinely want to help Tim, even if that help was unwanted and about something Tim very much did not need to deal with.

“Aren’t you going to bring anything? Canned soup, a thermometer, some over the counter medication…?” Brian trailed off, gesturing into Tim’s kitchen, where he’d neglected to even look in his haste.

“I was just going to use his. Wouldn’t that be the best idea for like, cross-contamination or whatever?” Tim asked. Brian laughed.

“Dude. It’s Jay Merrick . Guaranteed, he hasn’t got any of that. He might have some ramen, maybe. ” Brian said. Tim shrugged. He couldn’t argue with that one. “Here, I’ll help you pack some up. Where do you keep your grocery bags?”

Tim pointed to a drawer in the kitchen, getting one out while Brian rummaged through his other cabinets, occasionally pulling out certain items and setting them on the counter. Tim started bagging them.

“I’m just worried about him. That’s all.” Tim said after a moment. Brian’s amusement changed into something closer to understanding.

“I know. But he’s going to be okay. If you ask me, you should be more worried about why your boyfriend didn’t get a flu shot this year.”

“He’s not my-” Tim started, then sighed deeply.

“I know, but you want him to be.” Brian pointed out, “Look, I’m not going to rush you, buddy. I don’t know what you’ve been through, I just know it wasn’t good. But I also have eyes, and I can see that you two care a lot for each other. And as much as I’m making fun of you right now, I think it’s sweet.”

Tim ran a hand through his hair and sighed again. He supposed Brian was right. If this was what having a normal life was, well…he did want it. Brian picked up the grocery bags and handed them to Tim, who pulled the loops through his arm.

“So, go over there and show him you care. And if you get confused on how to do that, you got my number.”

“Thanks,” Tim said, walking to the door. Before he left through it, he turned back, “Seriously, thanks.”

“Anytime. But I’m staying in your house and stealing your food as payment,” Brian said, plopping himself down on the couch.

“Seems fair,” Tim said. He made his way to the car, ready to face whatever awaited him at Jay’s apartment.

#mh jam #jam mh #tim marble hornets #marble hornets #jay merrick #tim wright #jay marble hornets #sicktember 2022 #sicktember day 1 #i really hope you guys likes this I'm really proud of it #please please talk to me about marble hornets I am desperate

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revelationschapter6 · 9 months

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it feels like life weighs ten thousand tons

Events: Sicktember, Whumptember

Prompts:

Hopelessly Bad at Self-Care

Lashing out

Curled Up With a Pet

Warnings:

Minor self harm (Fallen angel picking up a blessed object)

Mentions of non-consensual touching (mentions of a character 'copping a feel')

This fill is written as a one-shot of my original story, Saudade. You can find my info page for Saudade here.

What context you need to read this is:

In Saudade, the Archangel Raphael Fell during the Rebellion. It was a misunderstanding that spiraled out of control, and he was thrown out by four angels while his partner, the Power Camael, tried to help him.

The angels who didn't Fall were made to forget those who did. They don't remember they ever knew them. As far as they know, all the Fallen were on the fringes of Heaven's society. If they asked around, they might go, "Wait, no one knew a Fallen?" But they Don't Ask Questions.

Raphael worked to gain Camael's trust again, and eventually won it. He regained his memories, then got the Archangels Michael and Gabriel, Raphael's siblings, to regain theirs. Now they're working on smoothing things over and reuniting Heaven and Hell.

Sicktember: Hopelessly Bad at Self-Care, Curled Up With a Pet Whumptember: Lashing out Raphael just wanted five minutes to himself. That wasn't too much to ask, was it? After all, he was only one person (by a certain definition of person), and he could only do so much to reunite Heaven and Hell. But, of course, the first time he has a moment to breathe is when it all comes crashing down on his shoulders. Thank, well, not God, for Lilith.

can be read on AO3 or below the cut

Characters mentioned: (not necessary, but for context)

Raphael - Fallen Archangel, male. Not well-liked in Hell because he worked to thwart the Rebellion, and didn't Rebel. Legally blind.

Camael - Power, male. Raphael's partner from before his Fall, now his partner again after regaining his memory.

Michael - Raphael and Gabriel's sister, the first angel ever made. Leader of Heaven's army. Secondary leader of Heaven. Female.

Gabriel - Raphael and Michael's little brother, the third angel ever made. Leader of Heaven's army, messenger of Heaven. Male.

Berith - Fallen Virtue, now a Duke of Hell. One of the eight Fallen that guard the entrance and exit to Hell. Raphael's boss. Male.

Asmodeus - Fallen Cherub, now a King of Hell. One of the eight Fallen that guard the entrance and exit to Hell. Infamously lecherous. Male.

Lilith - Adam's first wife, Fell for refusing to obey him. Became close friends after Raphael took her under his wing. Female.

Lethe - Fallen Seraph. A relative nobody in Heaven, but a great Inventor. Turned into a humanoid water-monster in her Fall, guardian of the River Lethe. Close friend of Raphael. Female.

Agares - Fallen Power, now a Duke of Hell, with a massive grudge against Raphael. Male.

Rasiel - Angel. Therapist of Heaven. Was one of the angels who threw Raphael out of Heaven after being manipulated. Deeply regrets it. Male.

Kundaniel - Throne. Archivist. Female.

Andras - Fallen Principality, now a Marquis. One of the eight Fallen that guard the entrance and exit to Hell. Female.

Jehoel - Dominion, female. Uncertain on reuniting Heaven and Hell.

Terms, etc.:

Sphere - There are nine ranks of angel, each with a different title and duty. The higher the rank, the more powerful.

Hell's Hierarchy - A ranking system implemented by Lucifer in an attempt at creating order in Hell. Having a higher title doesn't mean the Fallen is more powerful, but they have more clout and, often, more Fallen and demons under their command.

Raphael, if he could, did all he could to stay out of Hell.

By and large, he did well. Having a phone now, Berith could text or call if he needed him. Lilith and Lethe handled wrangling the Fallen well, in convincing them to put out, and accept, olive branches to Heaven. In fact, it was best he stayed out of their way; time didn’t flow the same in Hell as it did on Creation, but it had still been aeons since the Fall, and he was still hated. If he was the one trying to unite Hell’s half of Heaven and Hell, it would go very poorly, very quickly.

That didn’t mean he was sitting on his ass, though.

Lilith knew nothing of Heaven, having been human before her Fall. And it was so easy to forget that, with how quickly she’d taken to Hell, nothing more than a duck to water. But he had to teach her about Heaven, and he found there was so much to teach. So much that he took for granted, social graces that came to him naturally, for all he’d never been particularly extroverted, left her floundering. That she had no ranking - that she was no Virtue, no Dominion nor Power nor Principality nor Virtue nor even Angel, caught him up too. Because Heaven, for all it tried to be equal, still relied on its ranks. The Dominions mentored even young Seraphim, Angels did tasks for everyone else. Romances and friendships spanned all Spheres, but everyone was well aware of what they were, and what everyone else was capable of.

A Virtue, even if only a single rank higher than a Power, was undeniably more powerful than a Power. Perhaps not stronger, but their divinity carried more of a punch, and they could do more with it. And a Power was more, well, powerful than a Principality.

So finding where Lilith fit into that threw him. Ranks were causing far more trouble than any of them had expected.

Because it wasn’t just Lilith who lacked a rank. The demons - those who’d never known Heaven, who’d been borne of Hell, not of Eden or Creation - didn’t either. None of them did, not even in Hell. Lucifer had never ranked even the most powerful of them, the most accomplished.

And that, too, was a problem. Not just in where the Fallen stood - was a Fallen Virtue to be treated the same as a Virtue in the Host? Or should they be treated as a Power, a Principality? As punishment for Rebelling so long ago? But then that would cause strife because no Fallen would accept being treated as lesser.

But Hell had its system now, too. It didn’t affect how powerful they were, as Heaven’s did. But they were treated in Hell as if they did, given control over legions of Hellish beings. Agares had been a Power before his Fall, stronger only than Principalities, Archangels, and Angels, weaker than the five other ranks. But in Hell, he’d been made a Duke, the second most powerful of the eight titles. Nine, if you counted those who had no title. Ten, if you counted the Grigori, who stood apart. Should he be treated as a middling Power? Or as something more powerful?

Raphael, Michael, and Gabriel were pulling their hair out over it.

And building relationships back with Heaven… well, that wasn’t exactly a cakewalk, either. Angels who got their memories back, realizing the Fallen they’d fought with, even killed, were angels they’d known once. Sometimes they’d been parental figures, older sibling figures, friends, or romantic partners. Other times they’d been child figures, in the case of Dominions who’d killed their charges, or little-sibling figures. Rasiel, as great as he was (as much as Raphael hated to admit it), could only help so many angels at once. And Raphael, apparently, was becoming the go-to for couples, or friends, or similar, who’d reunited and needed advice. After all, he and Camael had managed, so couldn’t he help them?

Every time he stepped foot in Heaven, it felt like he was being swarmed. And considering how isolated he’d been for the last… how many years? It had been over four and a half billion years on Earth, but time didn’t flow the same in Hell, and they didn’t perceive it the same besides, but that was still a damn long time. It was making him want to shove the next angel, Fallen, demon, human, or otherwise, who walked up to him and asked if he ‘had a moment’.

He’d have a fit, is what he’d have.

He loved spending time with his siblings, of course, and Camael, and catching up with them. It had been a very long time, after all. And Rasiel was doing all he could to make it up to him. Raphael couldn’t be prouder of his students; they’d all really come into their own. He was enjoying getting to know all the new angels who’d been made to heal - a good thing, seeing as Heaven had only grown larger and larger.

Going into Hell, though. Well, Creation wasn’t safe. Humans could be dangerous in their own way, and Creation had its own dangers; animals, of course, and nature itself. He still had nightmares of Pompeii. And Heaven wasn’t, either. There were more than a few angels who weren’t happy about Heaven and Hell reuniting. Though they’d tried, neither he, Raphael, Michael, Gabriel, or Camael had been able to work out why some of them Fell but others didn’t.

But Hell was still Hell. Hellhounds that reached his hip on the hunt, imps swarming to feast, Damned souls suffering. And, of course, Fallen taking out their hurts on others.

Hell (pun unintended), some Fallen weren’t even taking their hurts out on others. They’d had a very long time to get used to it. But that was just ‘how it’s done’, so they’d kept doing it. And the demons had followed in their stead. So, though not with the same fervor as they once had, many Fallen and demons made Hell treacherous.

Still, Raphael did have to go down to Hell sometimes. To meet with Lethe when she didn’t come up to see him. She’d tried to get a phone but kept breaking them when she forgot to put them somewhere safe before diving into her river. And imps were as far from reliable letter carriers as you could get. To meet with Lilith, when Hell’s notoriously faulty phone service failed them.

Or, like now, when he couldn’t find something he knew he had. He’d searched everywhere it could be in Heaven, which wasn’t many because he usually only brought himself Up. Had scoured his apartment, which hadn’t taken long, as spartan as he kept it. Had searched every one of his pocket dimensions, and hadn’t found the scrolls he needed. He’d even had Camael check his apartment, though there was no reason he’d have ever brought them over there.

He didn’t even know the contents of the scrolls, which he’d found and kept on a whim back in the days of the Achaemenid Empire. But Kundaniel was near-desperate for them, whatever they were.

There was only one other place he kept things, so he’d made his way through Hell. Well, that he kept things and knew where they were. He was pretty bad about losing things, but even he wasn’t bad enough to lose an armful of scrolls. Asmodeus had clung to him like a bad smell, as he always did, so it had been hours before he’d even gotten past the Guards. Andras, as always, was no help, only encouraging him.

Every time, he forgot how draining it was. Having to sneak on edge more than ever, looking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t followed. He hadn’t guarded the location of his home so jealously for so long just to have it found out by being inattentive.

The cave, he’d sworn when he’d settled in it, would never become home. But it had, in a way. In its familiarity, in the softness of his star-woven rug. In its illusion of safety, until he’d found those sigils that made it truly safe. Still, it didn’t hold a candle to his apartment now, with Camael not far away, fairy lights strung across the walls, and made perfect for his faulty eyesight.

The sigils, he noted as he sidled into the cave, needed to be touched up. If they wore away much more, they’d start letting in imps and lesser dangers.

Raphael took a deep breath as he stepped into his cave, looking around. It had been a while since he’d come to it, and he’d forgotten that he’d left it in a rush. His rug lay in a heap, constellations twinkling awkwardly. A pair of boots, in the fashion popular in the 60s, slumped against the far wall—he’d been intending on storing them, as he’d found them comfortable, but forgotten to. Next to them was a dirtied muslin gown he’d been attempting (rather poorly) to darn, dropped to the dirt in his hurry. He grimaced, looking around.

That damn ushabti laid in the center of the room, though he’d swear he’d stashed it away.

The cave wasn’t big enough for him to see particularly well - he could only really make out the edges of it - but the scrolls would have stuck out like a sore thumb. Even he could make out smears of tan against brown dirt.

He sighed again, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Where were the fucking scrolls?

Who lost scrolls? Who lost two-thousand-year-old scrolls?

Him, apparently.

“Fuck.”

Could one thing go right? He’d fumbled talking to Jehoel, Asmodeus had managed to cop a feel, he was fairly certain Michael was beginning to realize he couldn’t, in fact, see her seeing as he’d tripped over a polearm that had fallen but was, apparently, very visible. ‘Are you fucking blind?’ Had been Gabriel’s laughing words, but Michael, who was positioned just right for Raphael to be able to see her with absolute clarity, had had a look on her face he didn’t like. Camael, he was certain, was starting to realize something wasn’t right. Raphael had been stupid enough to stop paying so much attention in his apartment. Camael, for all he liked new things, loved familiarity; he’d had stainless steel, white everything, and glass tables since when neon was all the rage for house colors, and Raphael had never known him to get a new piece of furniture. Like Raphael, he moved every decade or so before anyone could start noticing his lack of aging. Even still, almost every apartment was laid out the same way.

So he’d been shocked when, looking at Camael as he talked, he’d stepped where he knew clear floor to be and felt the corner of the coffee table strike his shin. He’d fallen spectacularly, only able to be thankful that he’d landed off the table instead of on it because that would surely have been far more painful.

This was why he hated glass furniture.

Then again, if this was what came of using all his luck to get his family back, he wouldn’t complain. He’d take bad luck for the rest of his life if he had to.

The sigils flared an alert against his consciousness as he heard dirt shifting behind him. There wasn’t a sound of pain or a feeling of alarm, so he closed his eyes and took another deep breath.

“Hey Raphi,” Lilith said. He opened his eyes and stared at the far wall, then turned to greet her. He’d almost hoped it was someone with intent on harming him.

“Hey,” he said, perhaps a bit too harshly.

“You have a minute?” She asked, wiping dirt off her jeans.

Did he have a moment?

“Do I-?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Do I have a moment?” Lilith stared at him in obvious confusion. “Do I have a moment?” His voice rose in volume.

“I only have to figure out how to get Asmodeus not to act like a Goddamned nymphomaniac because angels are complaining, Berith to act like a person because he’s freaking people out, work out the ranks, figure out who the Hell keeps setting shit on fire in Heaven, figure out who keeps sending me holy water, get Agares off my back, play counselor to half of Heaven and Hell, and find these damn scrolls I couldn’t care less about! Yeah, I have all the time in the fucking world!”

Lilith blinked at him, wide-eyed. The chihuahua-shaped hellhounds at her feet shivered, but they always did that. “Well,” she finally said, “tell me how you really feel.”

His face flushed an ugly, blotchy silver. To keep from saying something he would certainly regret, or doing something he would certainly regret (he was getting better at thinking before he acted, Camael would be very proud of him), he spun on his heel and stalked to the center of the room.

Or maybe not, because he snapped “How I really feel?” He stooped, picking up the ushabti with his bare hands. The holy object met his skin with a sound like meat thrown on a hot, greased pan, and Lilith lurched towards him with an alarmed sound. “I feel like everyone should leave me the Hell alone for five damn minutes!”

Lilith smacked the ushabti out of his hand, sending it skittering across the dirt. “Are you insane?” She unpeeled his clenched fingers, hissing when steam rose from his blistering hand.

Canines elongating, he snarled.

“Just because you’re pissy doesn’t mean you can go off at me, damn!” Lilith scowled at him. “Or pick up something blessed with bare hands. You think you’re going to be useful to anyone without a hand?”

He tried to pull his hand away, but she had a very tight grip. She flicked her talons out, digging them into his flesh in warning. “You’re not going to be useful to anyone if you snap, you know. You need to take a break.”

Her brown eyes met his, and he had to look away. “A break? When do I have time for that?”

“You have to make time.” With that, he yelped as she shoved him away. His balance already precarious, he tripped. Bracing for a painful landing, he was startled to find himself landing on a pile of - were those furs? Animal pelts? Who still used animal pelt piles? Even in Hell, they’d largely made the switchover to sleeping bags, cots, and futons.

He blinked up at her owlishly. Before he could do more than push up onto his elbows, beginning to say “What’s wrong with you?”, she stooped down, picking up Momo.

Oh no.

Raphael hated many things. What humans had done to isicia omentata. Rome. Loud noises and bright lights. Dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. Things that felt goopy. Fake tans. The word ‘supple’ in English, ‘dedo do pé’ in Portuguese, and ‘brustwarze’ in German. Horses. Clowns (they were just rip-offs of jesters. Jesters were better and looked less terrifying). Palm trees.

But he hated Momo and Nina, worst of all.

They were hellhounds, which meant he didn’t like them on principle. Hellhounds were nasty creatures, with a tendency to bite first and ask questions never. And they confused him. They confused all of Hell, actually. While she considered Momo male and Nina female, Hellhounds were sexless. No one knew how they reproduced, they just did. One day you had one, the next you had the one and a pack of hellfire-eyed, stone-toothed puppies with less self-control than regular dog puppies.

When you compressed that into a form small enough that a child could punt it and spoiled it out of Hell, you ended up with a hellhound that felt the need to prove itself. Or, in their case, two.

Nasty things, but she loved them to death. He’d been the one to help her pick them out of a litter they’d found in a cave, and he’d regretted it ever since.

Raphael scrambled to stand, but she was faster. Momo landed on his stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs. He froze - that little face was innocent, muzzle short and blunt, eyes wide and round, ears comically large, and Lilith kept his long, brown and white fur immaculate. But those teeth were far too long and far too sharp, and there was too much red in those brown eyes. Lilith let them nap in her lap for hours, but he’d seen how suddenly they could move, and how quickly they could cover ground. Of the many things he’d seen in his long life, Nina going from a dead sleep to ripping open an imp twenty feet down the tunnel was one of the scariest. He wouldn’t have time to twitch before Momo’s teeth were buried in his throat.

Momo plopped his butt down, plume-like tail wagging.

“Phone,” Lilith demanded, holding out her hand.

He refused to look away from Momo’s unblinking eyes. “What?”

“Give me your phone. You need a break. I’m getting you one.”

“I’m not-”

She stooped down, still holding out her hand. Raphael whimpered when she straightened, holding Nina threateningly in her other hand.

“Phone,” she said, grinning. His fear of them was a never-ending source of amusement for her. Nina yipped, wriggling, paddling her hind legs where they dangled. The light that came off the single torch in his cave shone oddly against her blueish, brown-orange and white, disturbingly short fur.

Raphael whimpered in horror as Momo leaned forward to lick his chin.

“I know your phone has voice… whatever it’s called. I’m not afraid to use it. You want me to call them through your pants?”

She stretched out her arm, dangling Nina over him.

Raphael gave her his phone.

Nina landed in his lap. He yelped, going rigid, as she circled to get comfortable. Her pin-prick nails dug into his legs.

He yelped, startled, as Lilith flopped down onto the furs beside him. “Your phone makes me sad,” she said, flicking between Michael, Gabriel, and Camael’s contacts. “You need to add stickers, or a nice case, or a keychain. Just, make it look less like an old man phone?”

“’s not an old man phone,” Raphael grumbled. Even if it was, wasn’t he technically an old man? But he liked his phone. It was black and white and plain and sturdy. It didn’t have any of those ridiculous extra things people added. Who needed pop-out things on the back? Or sparkly cases? Just seemed a waste of time and money to him. “I like it.”

He went cross-eyed as, Nina having curled up in his lap, Momo leaned forward to lick his nose.

“You make me sad,” Lilith said.

Lilith told him that a lot.

“Now lie down,” she pushed down on his chest. He went down with a grunt. Momo flopped forward, curling up on his chest, and immediately began to snore. Smoke puffed from his nostrils with every breath in time with the smoke pluming from Nina’s, like she were some tiny dragon.

“You are going to sleep,” Lilith said, twisting to rest her head on his shoulder, pinning him down, “for at least a few hours. Then you are going to relax for a few days.”

“But-”

“Raph, you’re a dick when you’re stressed. You want to blow all this up because someone asked you for a moment when you were trying to take a break? Angels are already trying to prove we’re not safe to be around.”

She did have a point. He sighed. Momo grunted, squirming to get comfortable. His nails dug into Raphael’s chest to hold him still.

“I don’t like you.”

Lilith grinned, knowing she’d won. “Love you too.” She flicked to Michael’s contact (that they had become fast friends worried him. They could take over Heaven, Hell, and Creation if they put their heads together) and pressed call.

He had a pocket-sized apex predator on his chest and another on his lap.

How she expected him to sleep, he had no idea.

#whumptember2023 #whumptember day 8 #day eight: lashing out #sicktember2023 #sicktember day 1 #sicktember day 19 #saudade #raphael #lilith #one-shot #original story #original writing #tw minor self harm #tw mentions of non consensual touching #sicktember 2023

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groundcontrol21 · 2 years

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Sicktember #1

Prompt #1: “Do You Know How to Take Care of a Sick Person?”

Fandom: BBC Musketeers

Title: Care and Keeping

Summary: D’Artagnan knows he’s meant to be caring for Aramis, but he doesn’t exactly know what such caring entails. Constance isn’t pleased when he pleads ignorance.

As a gift for Porthos’s upcoming birthday, it had been agreed upon by his friends to give him a new jacket, considering all that his clothes went through regularly. Constance volunteered her knowledge of fashion (and cloth merchants with the best prices), and agreed to sew the garment with Aramis’s help. Athos had volunteered his purse to fund the project, and D'Artagnan? D'Artagnan was providing moral support.

As D'Artagnan soon found out, moral support duties extended to effectively babysitting as well. The day had started off as planned, with Athos and Porthos remaining at the garrison, training new recruits while D'Artagnan, Aramis, and Constance went out in search of fabrics.

However, the trio hadn’t gotten far into their errands when it became apparent that Aramis was not up to the task. He sniffled, sneezed, and coughed seemingly just as often as he took a step, and looked altogether paler than he should have. When confronted by the combined forces of Constance and D'Artagnan after tripping one too many times, he admitted to a discomfort in his ear which caused a slight dizziness in his head. Both his companions knew enough to translate discomfort to pain and slight to severe, and so Constance bid D'Artagnan return with Aramis to the Bonacieux and put the ailing man to bed in the spare room while she finished the errands herself.

So now, D'Artagnan was seated at the table in the Bonacieux home, drumming his fingers on the wood and waiting for Constance to return. Aramis had lain down with relatively little coaxing, assuring D'Artagnan that with a little sleep he would be good as new. D'Artagnan hadn’t heard much from him since, and hoped that meant the man was getting some rest. He truly didn’t look well.

At last, Constance returned with bundles of cloth beneath her arms and a loaf of bread in her basket. Immediately, her gaze fell on the door to the spare room.

“How is he?”

“I think he’s asleep,” D'Artagnan said.

No sooner had he spoken, however, then did a series of hoarse, congested hacks issue, muffled, from behind the door.

D'Artagnan winced. “Guess not.”

Constance’s brow furrowed, and she clucked her tongue. “His cough sounds pretty bad.” She drew a knife and began slicing the bread, regarding D'Artagnan henceforth from over her shoulder.

“What kind of tea did you bring him? If the chamomile isn’t helping him, perhaps a blend of marshmallow root will.”

D'Artagnan blushed, and was suddenly glad she was not looking at him. “Well, I wasn’t sure what kind to brew and I felt bad asking him, so…” He trailed off, picking at the hem of his baldric. “I haven’t quite made him any yet?”

At this, Constance whipped around, and D'Artagnan was fairly certain that if the object in her hand had been a rolling pin instead of a knife she would have hit him with it.

“Did you make him a compress for his ear? He said it was hurting him.”

“Er—“

The knife clattered to the counter as Constance threw up her hands. “D'Artagnan! Have you done anything to help the poor man?”

“Um—“

“Do you know how to take care of a sick person?”

“Not really, no!” D'Artagnan cried in exasperation, feeling his face grow hot. Aramis hadn’t asked for anything, and D'Artagnan was wondering when that became his fault. “That’s why I was waiting for you to come back.”

Constance rolled her eyes. “You’re unbelievable!”

Affronted, D'Artagnan seized the opportunity to tell Constance a few things he couldn’t believe about her, and so they went, bickering and casting insults about upbringings and lifestyles as was necessary. Their heated words might have escalated to a full-blown fight, had it not been for a hoarse call from the other room.

“As much as I enjoy feeling like a child listening in on his parents’ row, I’d be much obliged if you’d let me sleep.” The words were followed immediately by a pair of wrenching sneezes that had Constance frowning. “Heh’SHOO! Heh’ISH!”

“Of course, Aramis,” Constance said, voice and posture softening exponentially, “we apologize.”

As D'Artagnan sank back into his chair, the tension bleeding from him as quickly as it had come, she tucked hair behind her ear, chewing on her lip as though she wanted to say something else but was unsure of what to say. The decision was made for her when Aramis underwent a small fit of coughing.

“Would you like some tea before you sleep?” she called through the door, leaning her head against the wood as she awaited an answer.

“That would be—Heh’kssshh!—lovely.”

“I’ll make it,” D'Artagnan said quickly, jumping to his feet.

Constance narrowed her eyes at him. “Damn right you will.”

#poor ara/mis #do not reblog to non kink blogs #snzfic #sickfic #my writing #sicktember 2022 #sicktember day 1 #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #more muskie snz!!!#sick ara/mis

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autobot2001 · 8 months

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Sleep Struggles

1 of 6 one-shots for Sicktember 2023

Fandom: Transformers ( Bayverse movies? Characters: Crosshairs, Drift, Jamie (OC) Prompts: Day 1: hopelessly Bad at self-care. Alt 4; forehead kisses Warning: Depression, poor mental health Description; Jamie's mental health is terrible to the point where she's terrible at self-care and struggles to sleep.

"I don't know what we're going to do," Drift tells Crosshairs, "Jamie's mental health has been a struggle since we met her years ago, but not like this." The two walk into their room and see Jamie asleep on the couch. The barely touched coffee cake muffin on the coffee table. The two know Jamie finishing her coffee means nothing when she barely eats. They hate she fell asleep, and it's only noon, but Jamie didn't sleep well yet again. Both don't want to discuss how bad Jamie's mental health has been. Her self-care has been bad. They've grown tired of talking about the situation when they feel like there's not much they can do to help her. "You don't think Ratchet will start arguing we need to put a G-tube in?" Drift asks. Crosshairs knows the concern isn't just Jamie losing weight but also not getting what she needs. He can't argue how that decision won't be made. Crosshairs hugs Drift. The subject is changed to Jamie's sleep struggle. With an idea in mind, the two go to the cafeteria, knowing they'll be able to check on their friend throughout the afternoon.

While they know this can't be routine, the two mechs decide to get McDonald's for dinner. Worried about the lack of calories Jamie has eaten today. Both deciding to do the plan at eight. The three watch TV. The two mechs are happy seeing Jamie eating.

"What would we do if you two weren't together?" Crosshairs jokes. "That's not funny when she won't say we're together." I should have known he wouldn't like that joke. Crosshairs regrets. "I'm sorry," Crosshairs apologizes. He tells Jamie he'll be back and leaves the room as the two planned. Crosshairs sits in the hallway by the room. He told Drift he'd be in the upstairs lounge room, but now Crosshairs doesn't want to go far even if it doesn't matter where he is.

Drift is troubled by Crosshairs' terrible joke and why Jamie won't say she and Drift are together. Even if it's not a secret. The blank stare from Jamie doesn't help as she's in the tub. It's hard knowing she won't say we're together, but it's more troubling when the reason why it's a good thing she's ok with me seeing her nude is to sit here and make sure she doesn't try to drown herself.

Crosshairs gets a text from Drift telling him he can come back. He walks into the room and sees Drift holding Jamie on his bed. Crosshairs sits beside Drift, seeing Jamie isn't asleep yet but is falling asleep. "I love you," Drift whispers and kisses Jamie's forehead. Crosshairs rakes Jamie's hand but says nothing.

After a few minutes, Drift puts Jamie in bed. He lies with her until she falls asleep. Crosshairs pulls Drift up to hug him as the mech moves to the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry," he apologizes again. "It's fine; it's just hard that she won't say we're together, and her mental health affects her self-care. " "You stayed with her?" "Yes, I hate how I don't dare leave her alone in the tub." Crosshairs doesn't know what else to say. Both know their mental health is being affected by watching Jamie struggle. Crosshairs knows Drift hasn't been able to meditate, which was how he would help his mental health. They both know they need to take care of themselves to be able to help Jamie, even if, for now, it has turned into taking care of her. Both worry Jamie's sleep struggle is going to be frequent.

#sicktember 2023 #sicktember day 1 #transformers #transformers fanfiction #transformers autobots #transformers drift #transformers crossahirs #bayverse drift #bayverse crosshairs #Jamie (OC)#mental health #self-care #worried friends

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fanfictasia · 2 years

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Sicktember Day 1

Do You Know How To Take Care of a Sick Person?

Spoiler: This is an excerpt from Way of the Sith

“Are you all unaware how to treat someone who is… unwell?” she hears Anakin saying, from out in the hall. He sounds just like her father, but she can always tell which of them it is, even if she’s not nearby.

“She’s not sick. She’ll be perfectly fine,” Rapax says, from somewhere out of sight.

Anakin steps into the room, approaching her. His face is… strangely closed off, and she can pick up on his seriously conflicting emotions immediately. Something’s wrong. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“Will be,” she grumbles, miserably, “You can stay here if you want.” She thinks she’s the one most excited about him being here – though she supposes she doesn’t really know how her father feels towards him.

He sits on a chair next to her, expression strangely far-away.

In spite of herself, Leia shifts her position, reaching over to touch his hand. “Are you okay?”

Anakin takes her hand, squeezing it lightly. “I am.”

“Uh-huh.” She tightens grip on his hand a little. “You’re upset. About… all of this, I’m sure. I know it can’t be easy.” She can’t explain why she cares so much even, but she does. She doesn’t like seeing him upset, even if the answer may be for him to just join them. She doesn’t really want him to do that either – it’s nice when he’s Light. Even if no one else agrees with Athair on that, she does.

For a moment, he looks worn. “I have seen what you are doing for the galaxy, and your father only wanted his master alive. I cannot… fault him for that.”

She frowns. “Did Athair – Obi-Wan really change that much?”

“He… has.”

“He’s changed for Father, too. Father said Athair was much…. Darker before. But he’s still him, isn’t he? I know it’s not the same, but…”

“Do not concern yourself with it,” Anakin advises quietly, running a thumb across her hand. It’s the same gentleness her father always treats her with. Technically her and Anakin don’t really know each other, but in some ways, it still feels like they do.

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newwwwusername · 9 months

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Fic title : You Just Threw Up Blood (Please Rest)

@sicktember 2023 prompt : Hopelessly Bad at Self-Care

Rating : Teen & Up Audiences

Fandom : Arcane: League of Legends

Pairing : Viktor & Sky

Additional tags : Viktor Needs a Hug (League of Legends), Vomiting, Mild Blood, Exhaustion, Sky (Arcane: League of Legends) Takes Care of Viktor (League of Legends), Mobility Aids, Canon Disabled Character, Physical Disability, Terminal Illnesses, Sickfic, Caring Sky (Arcane: League of Legends), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nausea

Word count : 929

#fanfiction #fanfic #fanfic challenge #fanfic prompts #sicktember 2023 #sicktember day 1 #hopelessly bad at self care #arcane viktor #arcane netflix #arcane league of legends #league of legends #tw vomit

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nurse-buckley · 2 years

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Sicktember Day Eleven - Emergency Room/ Ambulance

Fandom: 9-1-1 Pairing: Buck x Reader Word Count: 1,095 words Prompt: @sicktember Day 11 - Emergency Room/ Ambulance, written for the amazing @floralbuckleys Tagslist: @firemedicdiaz @fireladybuckley @winterreader-nowwriter @iamasimpingh0e @dayrin085 @hauntedmilkshakeghost @floralbuckleys @writingmysanity If you want to be added or removed from my tagslist, please let me know!

Buck had warned you on more than one occasion to be careful carrying stuff down the steep stairs of his loft, even more so now you had both welcomed the latest edition to your family. The shelter a block from your shared apartment had had a special event for the cats and kittens in their care with their kennels recently overwhelmed. With a lot of pleading from you and the endless cute cat photos you'd sent to Buck, he had eventually caved and you’d adopted Sammie, a beautiful little white and ginger cat who had definitely made the place her home.

“Come on girl,” you gently nudged her with your foot to try and get her to walk ahead of you, your hands full with a basket of laundry that had built up. You giggled as she didn't listen, flopping over dramatically in front of you before moving to weave in and out between your legs as you continued to ignore her.

You’d had a few near misses, Sammie wanting to be right by your side, rubbing her face against your legs as you attempted to move past her. “Sammie, come on sweetheart, you’re going to trip…” you didn’t have time to finish your sentence as you came tumbling down the stairs, Sammie running off to hide with her tail fluffed as the flying laundry startled her.

You tumbled down the stairs, each one seeming to find a new spot to hit, sending jolts of pain through your body until you flew forward, your head landing on the floor with a sickening thud.

With the wind knocked out of you it took a little while for the initial shock to wear off. You took a shaky breath before you began to move each of your legs, testing for injury, moving higher and higher as you checked your body over. When it came to checking your wrist, you let out a yelp as a jolt of pain shot up your arm. The jerk sent another pain through your head and you could already feel the large lump forming near your temple where you’d made impact with the ground. You lifted your hand to inspect the side of your head, gasping when it came away with a smear of blood from a cut on your forehead.

With the danger over, you glanced around as you heard a meow, the sound followed by Sammie who had come out from her hiding spot to investigate what had happened. She made her way over coming to nuzzle against your side; if you knew better you would think she was apologising for causing the accident.

“And this is why we’re careful on the stairs,” you groaned as you cautiously sat up. Sammie seemed to take this as an invitation and she climbed onto your lap, her paws coming to rest on your chest as she nuzzled against your face. “Alright, get off me. I guess I’ve got to go and get checked out at the hospital. What’s your dad going to say about this? You think we can get away without calling him from the ER?”

Being gentle, you shoved her off before you slowly got to your feet, glad you were the only injured party between you. Once you were sure you were okay to stand, you made your way to the bathroom, grabbed some gauze for your head, and left your apartment for the short walk to the hospital.

By the time you arrived in the ER and were triaged, the pain in your head and wrist had doubled and you were beginning to think maybe it would be a good time to call Buck.

“Y/N?”

Your thoughts were interrupted as you heard your name in an all too familiar voice. You turned just in time to see Buck and Eddie wheeling a patient into the ER, cursing whatever power had led them to bringing someone in at that exact moment.

“Heeeeeey babe. It’s not as bad as it looks,” you replied.

Buck wasted no time, checking that Eddie was okay being left with the patient before he made his way over to where you were sitting.

“Let me be the judge of that,” he said as his hands came to hover over you, afraid to hurt you as he checked over your injuries. He put a gentle hand over the one holding the bloodied gauze to your head, pulling it away with a hiss as he got a glimpse at the wound.

“Y/N what the hell happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I swear, I was going to as soon as the nurse saw me. I wasn’t looking where I was going with the laundry and Sammie got under my feet and I ended up falling down the last few steps.”

Buck sighed as he glanced over the various bruises that had begun to form over your body and the swelling in your wrist, “that looks like a lot more than a few,” he admonished. “I’m going to go catch up with Bobby and let him know I’m staying with you, you’ll need someone to take you home with that head injury…,” Buck paused, “wait…how did you get here anyway? Did you drive with a head injury? Y/n, do you even know how dangerous…”

“Buck,” you interrupted him. “I’m not that stupid, I didn’t drive here…I walked.” You realised as soon as you said it and by the look on Buck’s face that it probably wasn’t the wisest decision you had made either, but you decided to chalk that up to the head injury.

“Why didn’t you call 911, or me? You could have had a spinal injury, you could have a serious head injury and be unconscious on the side of the road right now,” he continued rambling off each and every worst case scenario he could think of.

“I know and I’m sorry, I was embarrassed, you’ve told me time and time again to watch out for Sammie and I didn’t listen.”

Buck silenced you with a chaste kiss to your forehead, “it doesn’t matter now, as long as you’re both okay. I’m going to take the rest of the shift off, take you home, and we’re going to get your favourite takeout and chill on the couch tonight.”

You stopped him as he began to turn and walk away to find his captain.

“What’s wrong baby?”

“Can we stop by the store and get Sammie a treat? She’s had a trauma today too!”

“Anything for you two,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

#911 fanfic #9-1-1 fanfic #911 x reader #9-1-1 x reader #evan buckley x reader #buck x reader #sicktember #sicktember 2022 #sicktember day 11 #sicktember 2022 day 11 #emergency room/ ambulance ride

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