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surplus-of-sarcasm · 7 months

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Burning Up

TW: Delirium, fever (symptoms described), mentioned pills (medicine, I swear)

What is this? It's the fluff snippet I promised my lovely nemesis @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 , and I really hope you enjoy this < 3 < 3

"Are you alright?"

The words seemed to snap the heroine abruptly out the void of her own muddled up thoughts, feeling as though her head were stuffed with cotton, everything an incoherent blur.

"Yes," she still answered back anyway, a trained response, one that stopped people from prying any further, from looking disappointed. It was the answer they really wanted to hear, even if it really disproved the question's validity.

Except the villain didn't smile, and he didn't leave the way he was supposed to. His brows were furrowed, and his arms were folded across his chest, and even though the hero didn't say anything, she just knew she didn't enjoy the sight.

She'd always hated it when he frowned, when he wasn't smiling, or wasn't even wearing the cocky smirk he always brought to their fights. She couldn’t tell what exactly in her response had warranted such a reaction from the criminal, but the guilt twisting knots at the pit of her stomach was very palpable.

As she stepped closer to him, pulling her rigid, aching muscles into a fighting stance; anything to distract him, the attempt hindered by her sluggish movements, all she'd managed to do was stumble towards him, losing her balance humiliatingly fast. It was only her luck that the villain's reflexes were still as razor-sharp as always, rapidly pulling her into his arms and steadying her with his weight.

And he was warm, and blissfully so, his grip firm but never unkind. As fervently as the crime-fighter wanted to lie down, the villain's embrace was comfortable, comfortable to the point that her train of thoughts, broken and destined to crash seemed to steady a bit, the world losing its edge of murkiness for just a moment.

Carefully, the villain pulled away and pressed his hand to her forehead, immediately retracting it away as if he'd been burnt. The guilt resurfaced again, an old, unwelcome demon resurrected, even more so as his frown deepened.

He let out a soft curse. "What were you thinking? Trying to fight when you're like this? You're burning up!" he interjected, his eyes wide, and a note of concern in his voice mixed in with the annoyance.

Except all her mind chose to focus on was the villain's choice of words to describe her state. 'Burning up', as he'd called it, didn't seem too far-fetched from the fire in her head, practically sizzling across her flushed skin, bile rising at the back of her irritated throat, her sore muscles burning with the pain, every movement agonising. Even if she couldn't see that she was burning, literally burning, it felt exactly as though she was.

"You're coming home with me, right now. Whatever ludicrous reason you might have for pulling this bloody stunt, I don't want to hear it," he stated, blunt as always, lifting the hero into a bridal carry almost as though it was second nature to him.

And in the midst of her delirious state, the hero hadn't memorised the route he'd taken home in his car, or how he'd accessed his lair, probably not being able to tell it was a lair as he carried her up into his actual residence. In a different state, the heroine's uncanny attention to detail would have engraved it all into her memory. She only registered the arms that were around her, and the pain that racked her body; her mind becoming too primitive to notice much beyond what she could physically feel.

Soon enough, she found herself being laid down on silk sheets. a thick blanket being drawn over her, and he took her temperature and he swore again, letting out a tired sigh. And just when the villain was about to leave the room. . ."D-don't g. . .go," she slurred, her fingers gripping onto his sleeve as firmly as she could manage.

"I'll just get a couple things for your fever. Won't take me long, I promise." Something in the villain's demeanour shifted, his gaze softening for a mere moment, except he doubted the heroine would take note of it.

There was no doubt about the fact that she would realise she wasn't holding onto his sleeve anymore as he left.

He came back with a cold compress, a glass of water and a bottle of pills, sitting himself at the edge of the bed. Carefully, with a gentleness she'd never known the villain to be capable of, he placed the compress on her forehead, the coolness heavenly against her burning, sweat-slick skin. "Okay, I just need you to sit up and swallow these," he said, and he knew full-well that if she was in a better state she wouldn't have taken the medication so willingly, ergo, she wouldn't have trusted him so willingly. He couldn't help it as a pang of guilt seemed to crawl across his skin, but he shook it off anyway, focusing his attention on steadying the heroine's shaking hands and making sure she swallowed those pills.

He realised he hated seeing the hero, his supposed nemesis, struggling to lift her head up and put it back down, every movement clearly agony for her. He'd imagined he'd revel in her weakness, but right now, nothing of the sort had happened.

The villain had found a washcloth in one of the drawers, using some of the remaining water in the glass to wet it and wipe the sweat off her face and neck, his fingers carding through her hair absently as he pushed himself inwards onto the bed, letting Hero huddle into his form for warmth.

"Y-you're. . .gorgeous," she rasped out, staring into the villain's eyes, taking in the features of his face, his figure, all of him, even in this clouded state.

"What?" he blurted out, completely taken aback, but still continuing to stroke through the heroine's hair.

"Haven't you seen yourself?" she questioned incredulously, as though it was the most obvious thing in existence.

The villain smirked in response, "Well, I guess I'm not narcissistic enough for your point to stick."

"Villain I. . .I'm in love with you," the hero admitted, and he'd never heard her voice so laden with conviction before, not when she'd promised to defeat him, and not any other time ever, her eyes locking with his own, her gaze unrelenting.

Sure, it still irked the villain that when the heroine had confessed her love to him, she'd been delirious, and that her strong emotion could possibly be a result of the aforementioned delirium, but that didn't mean these words held no weight or that the way the hero had regarded him - was still regarding him, had no effect on him.

So for once in his life, the villain sucked in a sharp breath and decided to risk it. "I'm in love with you too," he stage-whispered, carefully shifting the hero so that she was lying down on his lap and kissing her forehead gently.

Some locks are easy to pick, others not so much. That does not mean opening them is impossible, just that it may take a little longer to find the key. Most people aren't aware of what they are capable of feeling, of doing when their heart starts to beat for someone else. But they can never find out unless they have the courage to face the daunting possibility of taking the chance offered to them because love doesn't knock on the door; it walks in announced, and you get to choose what to do about it.

✨️Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @a-fucking-simp-00 @addictedsandwhichaki @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @theangstyclown @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @m3rakii @crotchgoblin69 @wtfevenisausername @pendarling @avloki-pal @kaiwewi@those-damn-snippets @whatiswhumpblog

Wanna be on the taglist? This'll take you there!

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adrift-in-thyme · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 2: Delirium

Read it on Ao3

- Time, Twilight, & Wild

- Summary: Time comes down with an illness and takes a turn for the worse

CW for delirium, illness and fever, mentions of holding a character down (no one actually gets held down), and a character getting punched

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Twilight sighs as he tugs the blanket a little higher over Time’s shoulder. The older hero shudders, teeth clacking together so hard it’s audible. When the rancher presses a hand to his head, it’s dangerously warm. He pulls away, lips set in a grim line.

“How’s he doing?” Comes Wild’s hushed voice from where he sits by the fire.

Twilight shakes his head. “No better. I think he’s getting worse.”

He sighs again, pressing his fingertips to his temples.

“There’s no need to fuss over me,” Time had assured the two of them only that morning. “I’m alright. It’s likely a cold, nothing more.”

And though his voice had sounded a bit hoarse and he was a little paler than usual, besides that he had seemed like his normal self. So, Twilight had taken him at his word.

…and had had to watch as his condition steadily declined throughout the day. He had tried to make more rest stops and urged the old man to drink during every one. Wild had even offered him a potion, though he had refused it. But their efforts hadn’t been enough. By the time they had found a good stopping place for the night, Time’s gaze had been bleary and unfocused, skin clammy and pale, steps stumbling and heavy.

When Twilight had pulled out his bed mat and ordered him to lie down before he could collapse, his attempts at arguing had fallen pathetically flat. And it hadn’t taken much convincing to get him to let the rancher guide him over to his bed mat. After that, he had swallowed the potion Wild had given him without much complaint.

Since then, he has been sleeping, though restlessly. And with each passing hour, Twilight’s worry has only grown.

Time shifts now, mumbling something about protecting cows and fighting off aliens. Another series of shivers run through him.

Twilight gnaws his lip for a moment, then looks over his shoulder at Wild.

“Hey, do we have any spare rags? I need something cool to put on his head.”

“Yeah, hold on.”

Wild searches in his pouch for a moment, then with a triumphant sound produces a small, worn cloth. Rising, he walks to the nearby stream. When he returns, the cloth is sopping wet with chilled water.

“Thanks,” Twilight says, taking it from him. Gently brushing Time’s hair back, he lays it over his forehead.

The hero shudders at the cool touch and his eye flutters open.

“What…” His gaze flits about the clearing, taking in everything but seeing nothing. “Is-is it time?”

Twilight exchanges an uneasy glance with Wild. Time for what, he isn’t certain. But he shakes his head anyway.

“No, not yet, old man. Go back to sleep.”

Time looks at him, his expression almost pleading. “Why…it-it’s so cold.”

He brings up a hand to pull weakly at the cloth. Twilight grasps his wrist before he can manage to fling it off. Carefully, he guides his hand back down to his side.

“You’ve got a fever. That’s gonna help us break it. So, just leave it there, alright?”

“No, I don’t want to,” Time slurs, stubbornly reaching for it again. “I’s too cold. And it’s wet.”

With an effort, Twilight suppresses a sigh. Little had he thought that caring for his mentor would ever be like caring for the village children.

“Here!” Wild shows up by his side with a bowl of stew in hand. Twilight hadn’t even realized that he had left. “I made dinner. This’ll warm you up!”

With a look of gratitude, Twilight takes the bowl from him. “Yeah, how about you have something to eat? It’ll help you get your strength back too.”

Though Time still looks less than pleased with the whole situation, the promise of warmth seems enough to convince him. He allows them to sit him up and spoon the food into his mouth, swallowing each bite dutifully. But even after he has eaten, he seems little improved. Shivers still rip through his body, his skin is hot to the touch, and he hardly seems aware of what is happening around him.

There is nothing more they can do, however, so Twilight helps him lie back down. Within moments, his eye slides shut and he is asleep once more.

-----------

Twilight volunteers to take the first watch. Wild needs his rest after the difficult day they have endured. Besides, he wants to keep a close eye on his mentor. So, he settles down beneath the shade of a tree a short distance away. And he waits for morning.

The moon is still high in the sky when he hears it. Someone is moving about behind him. The telltale clank of armor plates reaches his ears and he whips around, sword in hand. But there is no monster there. The sight that greets him, however, doesn’t calm him one bit.

Time is sitting upright on a nearby log, trembling fingers working to pull on his gauntlets. His abandoned bed mat lies not far away, masked by a heap of tangled blankets.

Twilight sheaths his sword with a sigh. He had worried something like this might happen. The old man’s fever is dangerously high, after all. But he had dared hope it would break before the inevitable occurred.

“Hey, old man,” he says, gently, and Time’s head jerks upward.

Even in the dim light of the dying fire, his cheeks look flushed, his face pallid. His gaze is as glossy as ever, yet when it meets Twilight’s the intensity of it is almost enough to make him pause.

“He’s coming,” he croaks, in a voice so hoarse Twilight cringes. His throat must be on fire right now.

He takes another step toward him, careful to keep his movements slow.

“Who’s coming?”

Time’s expression hardens further. A shiver tears through him with such intensity that his gauntlet slips from his fingertips and hits the ground. He retrieves it with a growl of frustration.

“Have to prepare…”

“For what?”

“Not what–who.”

Twilight swallows. “Okay, then, who?”

A short way away Wild stirs. With a groan he sits up, rubbing at his bleary eyes.

“What’s goin’ on Twi?”

At the sound of his voice, Time leaps to his feet, looking wildly about the clearing. Twilight rushes forward to catch him before he topples. The older hero tries to shove him off, but he holds on.

“Whoa, take it easy,” he says, patting his arm. “That’s just Wild.”

Time drags in a breath that rattles in his lungs. He looks down at Twilight, an almost crazed look in his eye.

“You must run – both of you. He-he’s coming! I’ll only be able to ho-hold him off for s-so long and…”

He trails off as his words dissolve in a hacking cough.

Wild is on his feet now, fear in his eyes.

“Potion,” Twilight mouths and he nods. Immediately, he ducks down and begins rifling through his pouch.

Twilight turns back to Time, who is still wavering in his grasp. “Whoever it is, we’ll get him, okay? Now, how about you just sit down? You can’t defeat him if you’re flat on your face.”

As gently as possible he pushes Time back onto the log, even as the older hero tries to wrench himself out of his grip. Twilight can feel the panic building steadily within him like water boiling in a kettle. If he can just get him to settle down before it grows out of control…

“You can’t–” The old man gasps, breathless and trembling. “Twi..Twilight…I have to…No!”

Abruptly, he reels back. Before Twilight can react, a fist collides with his face. The rancher stumbles. His grasp slips. With surprising speed, Time lunges for his sword.

“Ganondorf is coming!”

The fear is blatantly visible on his face now, terror audible in his voice. Twilight freezes, hand stopping halfway through its journey to touch his newly bruised cheek.

He’s not the only one with the arm strength of a moblin, apparently.

“Sweet Ordona…”

Time whirls and the rancher is forced to leap out of the way of his sword’s reach.

“Have to get the sages, have to save Zelda…” He takes a stumbling step forward. A particularly violent shudder races through him and the weapon slips from his grip to land with a dull thump on the earthen ground. “Get to the castle….can’t lose this time–all going to die…what a terrible fate…”

Twilight ducks down and snatches Time’s claymore before he can reach for it again. At that moment, Wild scrambles up to his side.

“Here!” He grabs the sword and presses a potion into Twilight’s hands instead. “Lemme get this out of reach and I’ll come help you hold him down.”

Twilight nods. He clenches his hand around the bottle, forcing an inhale through his nose. Time’s words have cut him straight to the core and left him winded and shaky. Never before has he seen the old man this vulnerable, this scared. It just isn’t right, to see his mentor gaze at him like a child seeking refuge from the monsters that stalk the night.

…a child with the world on his small shoulders.

“Time.” His voice trembles the slightest bit and he clears his throat. “I need you to trust me.”

Time freezes before him, teeth chattering, breath coming on haggard half-gasps. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

“N-no.” He shakes his head. “Only have three days. The clock resets — e-everything’s over. Have to sta…start again and I can’t…please don’t make me.”

He’s speaking pure nonsense now — at least Twilight desperately hopes that’s what this is — but it’s enough to shatter his heart. What nightmares has the hero endured to inspire a plea like this? What secrets haunt him?

…what regrets?

“Twi,” Wild says from beside him and Twilight forces himself to inhale the breath he had been holding.

“We won’t make you start again,” he says, quietly. “I promise.” Carefully, he holds out the bottle. “But we need you to drink this. It…it will give you strength for the battle.”

The lie tastes ashen in his mouth. He has no other choice though. It’s either this or pin the old man to the ground and by Hylia, he doesn’t want it to come to that.

Time’s eye flits between the proffered bottle and the two heroes in front of him. He shudders again, stumbling a bit.

Twilight dares to take a slow step forward. “Trust us.”

“We only want to help,” Wild chimes in, though his voice is unusually quiet. “You don’t have to fight anyone alone.”

For a long moment, Time merely gazes at them, resigned exhaustion and terror warring across his face. Twilight holds his breath.

And then, slowly, he reaches out. Grasping the bottle, he tips it back. No sooner has he downed the crimson liquid than the tension bleeds from his shoulders. The bottle slips from his hand at the same time that he slumps bonelessly forward.

Twilight is just in time to catch him.

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salembutnotthecat · 2 months

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Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Twenty

@monthofsick | day twenty: late caretaker (i think i did this right)

introducing some new ocs to take a break from Novak. meet Lucien, the rookie police officer Vanessa (Willow’s girlfriend) has taken as a little brother almost. lucien is very anti-help and vanessa doesnt care, basically

if you want to see more of this oc or any other, PLEASE SEND ME A REQUEST!

tw for emeto, resistance, fever, sick on the job

It's 4:47p.m.

He should be on his way to the station. The 6 to 6 shift. He didn't drive, he needed to catch the bus, and then the train.

Instead, he's half ready, coughing as he tried to catch his breath while leaning over the toilet, spitting after a sudden round of vomiting he hadn't been expecting to endure.

He hadn't been expecting the headache he woke up with, or the ache in his muscles, or the way that moving made his head spin.

Of course, he couldn't skip out on work. That would put everyone on tonights shift at a disadventage. And he couldn't do that to them.

He was shaking. He could feel the way his whole body was almost vibrating, like he had a current of electricity was running constantly through every vein in his body.

He needed to pull himself together. He needed to get dressed, he needed to catch the bus, the train, get to the station. Regardless of how terrible he was feeling.

Vanessa looked at the clock. It was quarter after six. Lucien wasn't here yet. That was unusual.

She picked up her phone, dialing Lucien's number. The phone rang, and rang, and eventually went to voicemail.

"Hey, Jonah," Vanessa said, grabbing her fellow officer's shoulder as he walked past her desk, "Have you heard from Officer Carpentier?"

Jonah thought about it for a second, before shaking his head, "No, I haven't heard from him. Ask Cap maybe?"

Vanessa groaned, tossing the file she was looking over back onto her desk. "Fine."

She got up, heading to Captain Baxter's office.

SHe knocked on the door.

"Officer McAllister?" Captain Baxter looked up from his own paperwork, "Are you here to get your clearance to go on patrol?"

"First of all, I would love to go on patrol, or literally anywhere that isn't this boring ass office," Vanessa said, "But, no. Actually, I was wondering if Officer Carpentier called in?"

"Not to me he hasn't," Captain Baxter shrugged, "Your rookie's a no show?"

"He doesn't seem like he would be a no show, like on purpose," Vanessa said, "But maybe."

A knock on Captain Baxter's door.

"Hey, Vanessa," Jonah is popping his head in the door, "Carpentier is here."

"Great, yeah," Vanessa said, "So, can I go on-?"

"Yes, Officer McAlliser," Captain Baxter said, "Stay out of trouble."

Vanessa stepped out of the office, offering a welcoming smile to Lucien.

"Ready to go on patrol Luci? Vanessa asked.

Something seemed off. Vanessa always prided herself in her perception of things. But Lucien was a special case. He was good at hiding things. Vanessa knew that.

"Are you feeling alright, Lucien?" Vanessa asked, her tone laced with concern as they parked at the riverside.

Lucien forced a smile. "I'm fine, Vanessa. Just a little tired."

Vanessa didn't buy it. She had known Lucien long enough to see through his facade. But she decided not to press him further, trusting that he would confide in her when he was ready.

As they patrolled the streets, Vanessa couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. Lucien's casual attire, a stark contrast to his usual professional demeanor, only added to her worry. But she chose to focus on their duty, hoping that the distraction would alleviate whatever was troubling Lucien.

Their radio crackled to life, dispatching them to a disturbance at a nearby apartment complex. Vanessa glanced at Lucien, who nodded in response. They arrived at the scene to find a heated argument between two neighbors escalating into a physical altercation.

Vanessa and Lucien intervened, defusing the situation before it could escalate further. As they escorted the individuals involved to their respective residences, Vanessa stole a concerned glance at Lucien, who looked paler than usual.

"Are you sure you're okay, Lucien?" Vanessa asked once they were back in the patrol car.

Lucien hesitated for a moment before nodding. "I'm just a bit tired, that's all. Nothing serious."

Vanessa sighed inwardly, wishing Lucien would open up to her. But she respected his privacy, knowing that he would share if and when he felt comfortable.

They continued their patrol in silence, the only sound being the occasional chatter over the radio. As the night wore on, Lucien's condition seemed to worsen, his usual composure slipping with each passing hour.

Around 2:30, Vanessa figured heading back to the station would be better. They could do their paperwork and then Lucien could be out by six.

As they got to the department, Vanessa got out of the car. It took Lucien a little longer.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Lucien told Vanessa, “Then I’ll catch up.”

Lucien started feeling nauseous halfway through the patrol. The nausea that had hit him so suddenly that evening, before he came in, was nothing to how he felt now.

His head spun, his body hurt, and his stomach was gurgling and churning in such a way he hoped Vanessa didn’t hear.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Lucien had forced out, if only barely. “Then I’ll catch up.”

Maybe taking a breather in the bathroom would settle his stomach. He was off the next three days. He could be as sick as he liked as soon as he got home. But for now, he had to stay healthy. Or at the very least, appear he was in perfect condition.

The button up shirt he tried to put on before work squeezed his stomach back then, but even the loose Portland police department sweatshirt he was wearing felt like a vice grip on his stomach. He knew Vanessa was already suspicious by his attire, but he was begging internally that she second guessed herself.

As Vanessa and Lucien stepped into the station, Lucien's stomach churned violently, threatening to betray him at any moment. He forced a tight-lipped smile at Vanessa before excusing himself, his steps hurried as he made his way to the bathroom.

Once inside, Lucien's legs gave way beneath him as a wave of nausea washed over him like a relentless tide. He staggered to the nearest stall, collapsing to his knees just in time as his stomach revolted with a vengeance.

The retching sounds echoed off the tiled walls, each heave sending shards of agony through Lucien's body. His forehead beaded with sweat, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to regain control.

His stomach heaved again, bile rising in his throat like a bitter tide. Lucien gagged, his whole body convulsing as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, a silent testament to his suffering.

Lucien’s world was suddenly reduced to the searing pain in his gut and the relentless cycle of vomiting.

Finally, the ordeal came to an end, leaving Lucien trembling and weak, his face drained of color as he slumped against the stall door. He wiped his mouth with toilet paper, his fingers trembling as he reached for the flush handle. But reaching forward, leaning forward, made his stomach lurch again. So, he leaned over the toilet, lips parted as saliva dripped into the bowl.

The shaking started again. The spinning in his head. The occasional clench of his stomach. Everything started again, telling Lucien he was going to vomit again.

Vomit again he did. His stomach lurched, he heaved so hard. Nobody was coming. Just as he liked it. He could puke his guts up, feel temporarily better, and finish the day. No additional concerns necessary.

He heaved, the type of heave he was sure started in the pit of his stomach and roared up his throat. He felt liquid come from his nose, he sniffled between vomiting rounds on instinct and could feel the acid going back up.

He clutched his stomach with his free hand, willing it to be over soon.

As minutes turned into what felt like an eternity, Vanessa's concern for Lucien grew with each passing second. She couldn't shake off the nagging feeling that something was wrong, her instincts as both a police officer and an unofficial older sister kicking into overdrive.

Abandoning her paperwork, Vanessa rose from her desk, determined to check on Lucien. She made her way to the bathroom, her footsteps quickening with each step, heart pounding in her chest.

Pushing open the door, Vanessa's heart lurched at the sight before her. The air was thick with the acrid scent of vomit. Lucien himself was kneeling, leaning over the toilet. Vanessa could see how bad he was shaking. She also saw the way his breaths shook, saliva dripped out of his mouth. She saw everything.

"Lucien," Vanessa whispered, her voice filled with concern as she approached him slowly.

Lucien didn’t look at her. Vanessa could see the way a hand stayed over his stomach, Lucien was trying to gauge whether or not he was going to be sick.

"I'm sorry, Vanessa. I didn't mean to worry you."

Vanessa's heart clenched at the sound of Lucien’s voice. Ripped absolutely raw by vomiting. Without a moment's hesitation, she brushed some bangs away from his suddenly sweaty face.

“You’re burning up,” Vanessa said, adjusting her touch to get a better feel of his forehead and cheeks. “Yeah. You have a fever.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucien tells her again.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Lucien," Vanessa murmured, her voice gentle but firm, she shifted her hands to pet his hair, "You're not alone in this. I'm here for you, no matter what."

But Lucien recoiled from her touch, his shoulders tense with self-doubt. "I don't deserve your comfort, Vanessa. I should be able to handle this on my own."

Vanessa's heart ached at Lucien's words, knowing all too well the weight of his self-imposed expectations. She did the same thing. She was sure it drove Willow up the wall most of the time. But she refused to let him suffer in silence, not when he needed her the most.

"You don't have to do this alone, Lucien," Vanessa said, her voice unwavering. "Let me help you."

Reluctantly, Lucien allowed himself to lean back against Vanessa, his defenses crumbling under the weight of his exhaustion. He felt the warmth of her presence enveloping him like a comforting embrace, soothing the raw edges of his frayed nerves.

“Come on,” Vanessa said, “Let’s head to the break room.”

Lucien nodded.

As Vanessa gently guided him out of the bathroom, her protective instinct kicking into overdrive, she was going through her list of things to grab. To give him.

She led him to the break room, guiding him to the couch. She brought over the trash can, just in case, and grabbed a cup of water for Lucien.

“Here, try this,” Vanessa said, sitting beside Lucien and rubbing his shoulder, “When six comes, you can come home with me, okay? Willow and I will take care of you.”

Lucien's throat tightened at Vanessa's words, a mixture of gratitude and guilt swirling within him. He accepted the cup of water with a shaky hand, taking a small sip to quell the persistent nausea churning in his stomach.

"Thank you, Vanessa," Lucien murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, taking the cup. "But I don't want to be a burden to you and Willow."

Vanessa's expression softened, shifting her hand from rubbing his shoulder to her running her hand through the slight curls of his sweaty shoulder length hair. "You're not a burden, Lucien. You're family. And family takes care of each other, no matter what."

Tears pricked at the corners of Lucien's eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of Vanessa's compassion. Despite his protests, she remained steadfast in her resolve to support him through his ordeal, her unwavering faith in him a beacon of hope in the darkness.

After a few sips of water, he looked at her, and she knew what he was looking for. Vanessa leaned back against the couch, Lucien laid hisbhead on her shoulder.

“I feel sick,” Lucien said, swallowing thick as the water tried to reappear.

Vanessa's heart sank as she felt Lucien's body tense against her, a silent testament to the relentless onslaught of his illness. She wrapped her arm around him, offering what little comfort she could in the face of his suffering.

"I'm here, Lucien," Vanessa whispered, her voice a gentle reassurance amidst the storm raging within him. "Just let it out. I've got you."

With a shuddering breath, Lucien buried his face against Vanessa's shoulder, his body convulsing with another wave of nausea. Then he broke away from her, grabbing the trash can. Vanessa rubbed his back as he heaved, hard. So hard Vanessa wanted to wince.

As Lucien emptied the contents of his stomach into the waiting trash can, Vanessa rubbed soothing circles on his back, offering silent comfort in the face of his suffering. And when the ordeal finally came to an end, leaving Lucien trembling and weak against her, Vanessa knew that they couldn't stay any longer.

"Come on, Lucien," Vanessa said softly, helping him to his feet. "Forget six o’clock. Let's get you home."

“But what about-“

“That cant have a puking officer on duty,” Vanessa shrugged, “And they won’t fire me unless I commit a real felony.”

Despite his protests, Vanessa remained steadfast in her resolve to take care of him, guiding him out of the break room and towards the exit. With each step, Lucien leaned heavily against her, his strength depleted by the relentless onslaught of his illness.

As they stepped out into the cool night air, Vanessa felt a sense of relief wash over her. They may have been leaving work early, but in that moment, nothing else mattered except getting Lucien home safe and sound.

“I texted Willow, she said she has some medicine for you,” Vanessa said, “Just try and rest until I get you to our apartment.”

“I can go back to mine,” Lucien offered.

Vanessa shook her head, “No Luci, you’re coming to ours. Willow and I will take care of you. Just let us, for once?”

And Lucien is too worn out, too nauseous, to disagree.

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #fever cw #fever tw #emetophilia #novemetober 2023 #novemetober rescheduled

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sephyathredon-writing · 7 months

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Whumptober #2: Identical

Summary: Ambrosius finds himself in a Kingdom unlike his own with a Ballister that goes by Boldheart, not Blackheart. When a fever begins to set in, will he be able to trust this man that's so different from the one he knows, yet shares the same name? Also Nimona is there and she scares him. An Entry for Whumptober under the prompts "Delirium" and "“I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

I plan to update this with a chapter 2 featuring Movie Ambrosius and Ballister Blackheart!

----

When Ambrosius wakes up, he’s in an alleyway and he doesn’t recognize his surroundings at all. Groggily he fumbled around until he found his crutch and used it to stand, glancing to either side of the alleyway.

He couldn’t remember what happened before he passed out. Surely he hadn’t gotten into a tavern brawl. The last one he could remember was his fight with Lord Blackheart and that happened a long time ago and certainly didn’t end with him in some awful alleyway.

Oh well, nothing left to do but try and find his way home.

He was only further confused when he stepped out of the alleyway and found that he was in a completely different looking place all together.

Everything looked to be in a similar style, but that style was mixed with technology that was unfamiliar to him. Some things he recognized though, like television screens placed on the sides of buildings, clearly they were designed to play ads, it was just that his Kingdom didn’t use it like that.

He also noticed cars and bikes hovering around them, certainly unusual.

One of the things that caught his eye was a billboard on one of the buildings. It featured a young man with light blonde hair and brown eyes displaying some kind of product.

Ambrosius scoffed, but then he looked closer at the text that was on it.

‘Ambrosius Goldenloin approved’

His disgust quickly became outrage

“What? But that’s my name!” he shouted, “But… that’s not me…”

Several people looked in his direction. There was a lot of muttering. Most of it being about how he couldn’t possibly be Ambrosius. Everyone was pointing out the differences and mentioning how he was disabled and had those ugly scars going across his face.

It was too much.

Ambrosius hobbled away from their attention as fast as he could.

After some walking, he found himself in a plaza. Construction barriers dotted the place and remnants of a statue were on the ground. From what he could see of the headpiece, it seemed to be either a woman or a man with long hair. It reminded him of the statue that was put up for him in his Kingdom.

It couldn’t be him, right? That billboard gave him a glimpse of someone else named ‘Ambrosius Goldenloin’. Not exactly a popular name.

The more he thought about it, the less he understood.

Suddenly, he wished Ballister were here by his side. Navigating an unfamiliar place would be a lot less daunting with him by his side.

Ambrosius suddenly felt dizzy, swaying in place, trying to make sense of it all. He felt like he was going to fall over and so he reached out a hand for something only to grab a piece of the construction tape and fall over, his crutch dropping to the ground alongside him.

He winced when he made contact with the ground, but it was just a fall, he could get back up again. As he reached for his crutch, however, someone appeared right in front of him, making him jump.

A pink haired girl with piercings, freckles, and wide pink eyes greeted him. She looked concerned.

“Are you alright?” she asked

Ambrosius suddenly had a hard time breathing, his heart was racing, his hands were shaking. He remembered claws tearing through the skin on his face and teeth biting into the weak points of his armor, the crack of a few bones as he was flung against a wall. He could still hear his own voice as he cried out, still hear Ballister’s as he begged her.

‘LET HIM GO!’

‘Just- just let him go. Please.’

“Aaah!” Ambrosius screamed in sheer terror, eyes wide, scrambling back and holding out his crutch as his only way to defend himself.

Logically, he knew this girl wasn’t the same Nimona that made him disabled, but all logic seemed to have gone out the window as soon as he laid eyes on her. The lingering trauma from that night was getting the better of him.

Still, Ambrosius could see that Nimona looked sad that he was scared of her, heartbroken more like.

“No, you don’t need to be scared. I’m not a monster, I promise. I’m just me. See!” She turned into a cat, clearly one of the least intimidating forms she had, “I won’t hurt you.”

The only thing that went through Ambrosius’ mind was that this person that looked like Nimona was indeed a shapeshifter, and that meant that she could hurt him again. Ambrosius flinched and scooted back even more.

“Stay away! Please don’t hurt me again!” he shouted.

“Again? What…” but Nimona trailed off, eyes on the jagged scars on Ambrosius’ face, “But, I didn’t do that…”

“Finally caught up to you. What’d you-” An unknown voice trailed off as the newcomer to the scene took in Ambrosius’ appearance, “Hey, are you okay? Do you need help?”

“Boss, those scars across his face, he’s saying I gave him those, I think.” Nimona shifted back into her human form.

Ambrosius tore his eyes away from Nimona to get a good look at this other person. A man with black hair, as well as a mustache and goatee. There was a scar going down his right eye that reminded him of Ballister.

“No, that can’t be right. There must be some misunderstanding. You’d best give him some space anyway.”

Nimona nodded and moved back behind the man, watching curiously and still with a sad expression on her face.

The man stepped forward, offering him a hand, which Ambrosius took, using his crutch to help him up.

“There we go. I believe introductions are in order. My name is Ballister and this is my daughter, Nimona.”

Ambrosius could see Nimona blush at being called ‘daughter’, clearly the title was still new. That wasn’t important, what was important, was that this man had Ballister’s name.

“Uh, no. You’re not Ballister,” Ambrosius stated.

Ballister’s eyes widened, clearly surprised that he responded like that. “Pretty sure I am. Have been, since the day I was born. Who are you anyway?”

“Who am I? None other than Ambrosius Goldenloin,” he responded as if he expected Ballister to know already. Ballister’s eyes widened in surprise.

“No you’re not. Not the Ambrosius that I know at least.”

“Yes, I saw him on a billboard on the way here,” Ambrosius retorted. “Somehow there are two of me now and two of you, and I don’t understand any of it.”

Ballister and Nimona exchanged glances before looking back at Ambrosius.

“If there are two of you,” Nimona pointed to Ambrosius, “and two of Ballister… that must mean there are two of me as well. The other me must have been the one that gave you those scars.”

“Wait wait wait. Hold up,” Ballister made a stop motion with his mechanical hand, which Ambrosius noted was another thing he had in common with his Ballister. “The only time there are two of me is when Nimona shifts into me.”

The reminder of that moment made Nimona visibly relax a little, a small smile on her face.

“Well, I know another Ballister. His full name is Ballister Blackheart,” Ambrosius responded.

“Blackheart? That was the name I was given when the Kingdom marked me a villain. My real last name is Boldheart.”

Well, that was at least one solid difference between the two, different last names. Though the fact that they were both branded villains at one point was another uncanny similarity.

“That’s… strange,” Ambrosius remarked.

“Look, lets just go back to my place, and we can talk everything out, okay? I don’t know what is happening, but I have been looking for my Ambrosius all day and I have a feeling his disappearance has something to do with why you’re here right now.”

Judging by the way Ballister had called the other Ambrosius his, it seemed like they loved each other as well.

Ambrosius nodded, “You’re the only one who might have any answers around here.” He nervously glanced at Nimona.

“She’ll give you space, right Nimona?”

She sighed but nodded.

“Alright then.” Ambrosius nodded his head at Ballister to lead the way.

“Uh, do you need help getting there?” Ballister asked.

Ambrosius shook his head, “I can walk. Just need this.” He gestured with his head at the crutch under his arm.

“You sure? I could turn into a horse or something. I could carry you,” Nimona interjected.

“No!” He reaction was louder than he expected and he hated the look on Nimona’s face when he said that. Whoever the Nimona he knew had been, she had been important to his Ballister. He was just still bitter over what had happened that night. “I can walk.”

As Ballister walked by Nimona, he patted her arm lightly and gave her a small smile, which seemed to cheer her up.

The walk was long and, surprisingly, led into the woods. Though he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised given that Blackheart’s castle was in the middle of nowhere as well. Through the trees, he could see that the whole town was surrounded by walls, high ones, like they were trying to keep something out.

Then again, his Kingdom was surrounded by walls as well.

“Of course you both have a castle,” Ambrosius muttered when he finally saw Boldheart’s hideout.

He laughed at that, “I wouldn’t exactly call this a castle. Used to be a very castle themed junk shop back when it was open. Who knows what happened to cause it to close down, but this is where Nimona and I spent our time when I was being hunted by the Institute and branded a villain and a monster.” Ballister held the door open for both of them. Nimona went first, placing herself on the other side of the living room.

“Wait? The Institute?” Ambrosius asked as he passed Ballister, entering the hideaway, “You mean the Institute of Law Enforcement and Heroics?”

“No, I don’t think our Institute ever went by a name. It’s just the only Institute in the Kingdom. It was responsible for ensuring our safety and overseeing the training of future knights to protect our kingdom, just as we thought Gloreth wanted.”

“Gloreth? Who is Gloreth?” Ambrosius asked, making his way to the couch in the middle of the room to sit down. Now that he got a good look at the place, it did seem very castle-like. The main room was big, but there were doors and stuff that hinted at other rooms. The place looked very put together.

Big windows lined one wall that went out to a garden to the side of the place. On the opposite wall, big nooks that mirrored the way the windows were inset held several things. A computer setup on one side, some sort of collage wall in the middle where Ambrosius could make out pictures of Ballister, Nimona, and the other him.

Still felt odd to think about, this ‘other him.’

The furthest nook had a setup for robotics. His Ballister was a scientist and very into robotics and technology. If Boldheart, this Ballister, held the same interests, then Ambrosius assumed that this was where he often made upgrades to his arm.

Speaking of his arm, Ambrosius wondered how it was taken this time. Was it still the same mistake he made out of jealousy?

Other than that, the place had a kitchen setup as well as a couch and table that had a board game and television on it. Ambrosius squinted at the board game setup, recognizing it as that silly game that Blackheart liked. ‘World Domination’ it was called and it was one thing that looked uncannily like what Blackheart owned.

Boldheart was in the kitchen area. He was purposefully avoiding answering the question for now, Ambrosius supposed.

Moments later, he placed a cup and a small saucer with a couple of snacks down in front of Ambrosius. Then he sat down on the couch carrying a cup of his own.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I went with my Ambrosius’ favorite blend of tea and a couple of the snacks that he likes.”

“Thank you,” Ambrosius replied and helped himself. The tea was too sweet and the snacks weren’t exactly his first choice, but it helped him to remember that he was different from the Ambrosius that this Ballister knew. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Ballister and Nimona exchanged glances from across the room, then Ballister looked back at Ambrosius.

“The the fact that you don’t know who Gloreth is confuses me a little bit. Gloreth is a knight that existed a thousand years ago. The tale, which we’ve recently learned is false, goes that she slayed a monster a long time ago and to ensure that everyone remained safe, entrusted some of her people with the duties of being a knight, of protecting our kingdom. The reason why Ambrosius Goldenloin is such a well known person around here is that he’s Gloreth’s direct descendant.

“Before the incident that happened recently, the kingdom believed that Gloreth’s bloodline was something special. We worshiped her, we revered her and her descendants, and that was a lot of pressure on my Ambrosius, all the time.”

Ambrosius couldn’t believe it, it was like everything he had ever dreamed of when he was living at the orphanage.

“You mean the other me is practically descended from royalty?”

“Yes, but it’s not as glamorous as it sounds, just trust me on that. I was really the only one that ever knew him for who he really was,” Ballister responded

“Ah, well I was just an orphan, nothing nearly as special about me. My Ballister and I grew up in the same orphanage,” Ambrosius replied with a small sigh. “I fought my way up to being the Institute’s hero.”

Ballister smiled, “You know, that sounds remarkably like me. I was just a commoner, who dared to dream he could be something bigger, and I acted on those dreams, and it got me the opportunity to be a knight. For a commoner to be offered a position in the ranks of the Knights was unheard of before I was given the opportunity. Guess the queen saw something in me.”

“That’s… not how it happened for me,” Ambrosius responded coughing into the crook of his arm right after.

“Yes, the more I talk to you, the more I’m starting to think that our worlds are wildly different, and the only big similarities are the names.”

“There are others,” Ambrosius responded. “My Ballister has your eye scar and an arm prosthetic, but it doesn’t exactly look the same. I… accidentally blew his arm off with an explosive lance during a joust in a fit of jealousy. Biggest mistake of my life.” It still wasn’t easy to talk about. He didn’t make eye contact with Ballister when he spoke.

“Ah…” Ballister responded, “My Ambrosius chopped my arm off out of pure instinct. I had the offending weapon this time, it was in a replica of my sword and it had activated in time to kill the queen. The Director of the Institute tried to frame me for killing the Queen. He was just trying to disarm me. It was what the Institute had taught us.”

Ambrosius raised an eyebrow, “Your Institute taught you to disarm by hacking off limbs? That’s messed up. Then again, ours wasn’t much better. It doesn’t surprise me that your Director would try something like that.” His sentence was followed by more coughing, but before Ballister could comment, he continued, “I’m guessing you were branded a villain after that, like Blackheart.” Ballister nodded. “How much time passed after the arm-losing incident?”

“A few months,” Ballister replied.

Ambrosius’ jaw dropped, “Only a few months? It took us fifteen years to finally make up. Guess it was the presence of the other Nimona that really started that process. Still, I can’t say I’m not jealous. The two of you clearly still love each other, and while my Ballister and I still do too, we spent all those fifteen years as bitter rivals.” He scoffed, taking a sip of his drink.

“That sounds like a hard thing to go through. We might have ended up like that if that much time had passed, who really knows…”

There was a lull in the conversation which Nimona used to her advantage. She stepped forward, but kept her body language relaxed and non threatening so as not to scare Ambrosius again.

“What was the Nimona that you know like?” she asked.

“Ah.” Ambrosius avoided eye contact with her before coughing several times, again into the crook of his arm.

“Are you okay?” Ballister asked.

Ambrosius nodded, “Must be coming down with something…” He looked down at his lap as he spoke the next sentence, “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you about her. You would not like to hear about her.”

“So, tell me anyway. It’s not like she’s really me, if what we’ve learned about the other Ballister is any indication,” she replied. “Did she give you those scars?”

Ambrosius’ hands gripped the fabric of his pants as he stared down. He answered Nimona with a nod of his head. Slowly, a hand went up and under his shirt, pulling it up to reveal several large wounds that went across his chest. Teeth marks.

“These too.”

Nimona’s eyes widened as she took in the sight. Ballister looked just as disturbed.

“To think that Nimona… in any universe… is capable of that…” Ballister just turned away as Ambrosius put his shirt back over the ugly scars.

“She is responsible for the broken leg as well, she’s why I walk around with a crutch.”

Nimona took several steps back.

“I… I think I need some air.” As Nimona turned to walk away, Ambrosius spoke again.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t see her in you. Clearly, your Ambrosius is fine and your Ballister loves you. Heck, even after everything that happened on the night she gave me those scars, my Ballister continued to care about her, to care about both of us.”

Nimona stopped, listening to Ambrosius talk, but didn’t answer, just shifted into a bird and flew away.

“I need to go check on her.” Ballister stood up from the couch, “You’ve given us plenty of insight into where you came from, but I think that last part may have been too much, even though she asked for it.”

Ambrosius nodded and stood as well, “I think I could go for some fresh air too. I’ll look around your kingdom a bit and come back later in the day. I need time to process everything you’ve told me.”

Ballister nodded, “Meet you back here then.”

Ambrosius nodded back and they both went their separate ways

----

Ambrosius’ walk in the Kingdom ended up being cut short. He made it back to the statue, now of who he assumed to be Gloreth, before he found himself getting very dizzy. He’d been coughing the whole walk and those coughs have been getting more and more common.

Ever the stubborn one, Ambrosius chose a different street leading away from the plaza and started to walk up it. He could feel himself getting weaker with every step.

Eventually, he collapsed. The action was so violent that his crutch fell out of his reach. He couldn’t even try to reach for it because as soon as he collapsed, he was seized by a coughing fit.

Someone who had been nearby at the time reached out a helping hand to Ambrosius. He took it and the man helped him sit up. Now that he could get a good look at the other, this man didn’t seem to have a counterpart in his world that he knew of. He had light brown hair with the tips dyed white and an undercut. Tan skin and brown eyes were also two notable features of his.

“You okay?” he asked.

Ambrosius couldn’t answer as another fit of coughing started. There was only one word he could get out.

“Ballister…”

He could feel his body temperature rise.

“Ah, well you’re lucky I know him, a little. He kidnapped me once.” There was no response from Ambrosius, just more coughing, “Right..”

The man pulled out his phone and dialed up Ballister.

“Hi, yes, It’s me Diego. I’m with a friend of yours who collapsed by…” He proceeded to give Ballister the location of where they were, but Ambrosius barely paid attention. He felt himself falling unconscious. He watched as Diego spotted him falling out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey!”

Everything went black.

----

Ambrosius woke up on a familiar couch. It didn’t take him long to realize that he was back in Ballister Boldheart’s hideaway. The second thing that he noticed was that he was burning up. The scars on his chest were hurting again, making it hard to breathe. His head was pounding. He was sweating so much that his long blonde hair was sticking to his head, but felt like he was freezing. It took him a little bit to realize that subtle wheezing noise in the background was coming from him, every time he breathed.

That wasn’t good.

He didn’t understand how a few coughs could escalate so quickly into a full blown fever, but he couldn’t really think about that right now, couldn’t really focus on anything but the fever and the numbing coldness of the cold compress on his head.

A figure came into view. For a moment he saw it as the man he loved. He reached a hand out, a smile on his face.

“Ballister…”

The hand that wrapped around his hand had a darker skin tone than his Ballister’s, completely shattering the illusion.

“I’m here.” That voice that was so unlike his Ballister’s spoke.

“No…” Ambrosius whined, “I want my Ballister…”

“I’m sorry, I can’t be your Ballister and I can’t find your Ballister, so I’m the best you’ve got for now.”

Panic set in, Ambrosius sat up and stared at Boldheart, eyes wide.

“No. If this fever kills me, I’ll never see him again.”

Ambrosius swayed in place. He shouldn’t have done that, he felt weak.

Ballister placed a hand on his chest, gently lowering him back down to lay on the couch.

“Shhh, save your strength. This fever won’t kill you.”

Ambrosius was silent for a moment before speaking again.

“What if I can’t return to where I came from? If I never see him again?” Normally, Ambrosius wouldn’t admit such fears aloud, but he supposed he could blame it on the panic and the fact that it was just so easy to relate the Ballisters to each other, what with how they looked so alike.

Ballister too seemed surprised that this Ambrosius was being so vulnerable.

“I promise, once this fever passes, I’ll do what I can to get you back to where you came from.”

Ambrosius smiled, staring up at the ceiling, rather than at Ballister.

“That’s something the two of you have in common. So willing to help people you barely even know.”

“But I do know you, you’re Ambrosius,” he responded. “You might look, sound, and act different… but deep down I can feel how similar the two of you are at your core. I may not know a lot about the other me, but I know he must be missing you terribly right now.”

Ambrosius just hummed, an indicator that he heard the other. His gaze was out of focus.

“Besides,” Ballister continued, “If you’re here, that must mean my Ambrosius is with your Ballister. He must be just as confused as you’ve been.

“There… there is that scientist, a friend of Ballister’s,” Ambrosius responded, his voice quiet, “If anyone can figure out how to get us back to our proper places, it’s her and Ballister…”

Boldheart nodded, “For now, just get some rest.”

The next few hours passed quietly. Ballister tended to Ambrosius constantly and especially made sure he had enough to drink. It touched his heart to see that this Ballister was so kind and caring. Eventually everyone called it a night.

Ambrosius did manage to get some sleep, despite the fever. A nightmare came to him. It was always the same one. The teeth, the claws, the flames, the sound of his leg breaking, the sound of Ballister begging for his life. Only this time, the monstrous black dragon that Ambrosius had once known as Nimona, had decided to finish the job.

Ambrosius awoke with a scream. Almost instantly, he heard a door burst open and Ballister was by his side.

“Ambrosius, what’s wrong?”

He didn’t respond, laying back down, his breathing heavy, his heart pounding in his chest. Out of instinct, he grabbed onto Ballister. The look in his eye showed that he wasn’t quite there.

“Ballister…” he sobbed, his voice trembling, “Ballister… I need you here!”

“Shhh, Shhh It’s alright, I’m here. I’ll stay up with you until your fever breaks if you want.”

Ambrosius shook his head, “No… not you… please, I need my Ballister.”

“I know, I know… I’m sorry, I’m what you have right now.”

“No… no please… he must be here… he must be here…” Ambrosius’ eyes searched wildly around the dark room for him. It was clear from his expression and how flushed his face was that the fever was taking its toll on him. Delirium was setting in.

He felt Ballister’s hand on his shoulder and those wild eyes finally focused on the other’s face. He smiled, but his eyes were still hazy and unfocused.

“Ballister… I missed you… This fever is burning me from the inside out. I can feel it destroying me. If these are the last words I am to say… I want to let you know that I love you. I have always loved you, even when we were enemies.”

Ballister knew it wasn’t him that the feverish man was addressing, but he decided to play along, if only to give him peace of mind.

“I missed you too. The Ambrosius I know wouldn’t lose to a fever like this, he’d keep fighting. I love you too. Don’t die on me.”

And just like that, the illusion was shattered once again for Ambrosius, but this time he smirked.

“Nice try…” His voice was quiet as he closed his eyes, “But I can tell it’s you… Boldheart…”

His body went slack against the couch.

---

Ambrosius awoke on a wholly different but familiar couch. None of the fever symptoms lingered. Most importantly he could see a figure leaning over and looking down at him, a concerned look on his face.

It was Ballister. His Ballister.

He’d never been so glad to see the bastard in his life.

“Ambrosius…” His voice was shaky and his complexion was pale as if he’d just seen death itself.

He sat up on the couch and looked Ballister up and down. It was Blackheart, he was sure of that.

“I just had the strangest dream…” Ambrosius spoke as he rubbed his eyes.

“It was not a dream,” Ballister stated, “We had a… rather unusual house guest while you were gone.”

He looked back up at Ballister, “I don’t suppose he shared my name, did he?”

Ballister nodded, “Claimed that there was another Ballister where he came from… and that a different Nimona was living with them…”

Ambrosius pursed his lips, trying to decide whether or not to tell him, or how much to tell him.

“There is, I… saw them actually. It seems that when the other me ended up in this Kingdom, I ended up in theirs.”

Ballister nodded, “I had gathered as much. Meredith came over for a bit, she deduced that it was an alternate dimension thing. Still… to think that there’s another version of you out there that acts differently and speaks differently. I’m not sure how to feel about that.”

Ambrosius stood up and tugged on Ballister’s arm.

“Thoughts can wait till morning. What matters is we’re all in our right places now.”

Ballister nodded and got up, letting Ambrosius lead him to the bedroom.

When they both got comfortable in bed together, just about to fall asleep, Ballister spoke up.

“The… other Ambrosius. He said that he… that he, Nimona and the other Ballister were all family together. I’m not going to lie, I was jealous when he told me that. Do you think one day we could end up like that?”

Ambrosius sort of saw a question like this coming. After all, no matter how much time passed, he was still hung up about Nimona and how their last meeting had gone.

“I dunno… anything’s possible in the future… for now, just get some sleep.”

Ambrosius still had the lingering trauma of his last encounter with Nimona to deal with, but maybe one day, if Nimona ever decided to come back, they could have something like what their alternate versions had.

As Ambrosius closed his eyes, images of the other Ballister and Nimona flashed through his head. It had been a weird journey and he wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but he was glad he got to know these other versions of Ballister and Nimona.

#whumptober2023 #no.2 #“I’ll call out your name but you won't call back."#nimona 2023 #fic #PTSD tw #fever tw #nimona movie #nimona comic #ballister boldheart #ballister blackheart #ambrosius goldenloin #found family dynamic #parallel universe #goldenheart

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actress4him · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023 - Day 13 - Lainey and Isa

I've been working on the next chapter of this story for a while now, but for now you get a bonus chapter - the rescue from Isa's perspective!

For most of the days this month I tried to use the lyric or at least the song as the prompt, but this is one of a few where that just didn't work out and I used a different prompt, instead.

Masterlist

No. 13: Infection | Panic

Contains: lady whump, sensory overload, needle mention, fever, captivity, thoughts of death, magical whump, touch aversion, implied sedatives

Isa can’t remember ever feeling this sick before. It isn’t the first instance in the time she’s been here that a wound has gotten infected, but she’s weaker now, likely. There’s no way she hasn’t steadily been getting weaker all this time. And now…it’s probably finally the end. Yes, she’s thought it many times before. She thought she was going to die just a few days after she first got kidnapped. She never dreamed she’d still be here five years later.

But everything has been so much worse since Lainey ran. Sir is so angry. She isn’t sure anymore that he wants her alive. He seems like he wants to keep beating them both until they’re dead and he doesn’t have to deal with them anymore. So even if he does come back down here and sees how sick she is, she isn’t confident he’ll do anything about it.

She sleeps, mostly. Fitful dreams, flashes of memories and nonsense fill her mind. Everything inside of her is burning. The few times that she’s awake, the searing pain across her back has her whimpering and curling her hands into fists.

Through it all, she’s aware of Lainey’s presence next to her. She can feel her heart beating steadily, can occasionally feel her palm brush her forehead and hear her murmuring reassurances. The only regret she’ll have in dying now is that she has to leave the poor girl on her own.

Suddenly she’s jolted awake, though she can still barely convince her eyes to open. There’s something close by…a car. The rumble of the engine vibrates in her chest. Is Sir…leaving? He didn’t leave them extra water, though, did he? He really does want them to die.

But wait, no, that’s…far more than a car. The vibrations are growing, filling her lungs so that it’s hard to breathe. She glares up at the ceiling, fluorescent lights dancing and shimmering, trying to make sense of it.

“What is it?” Lainey’s voice floats by.

“Something…coming…” she mumbles. “Cars?” Dragging her hand up to her chest, she rubs at it weakly, trying fruitlessly to dispel some of the pressure. There are so many cars up above them. Loud cars. Cars full of people that are now spilling out, footsteps pounding the ground. “Too many…too many cars and…people.”

Lainey says something in return, but she doesn’t hear. Everything is just getting worse. There are noises drifting down the stairs, yelling and banging, but even worse than that is all of the movement. It’s so much more than she’s felt in such a long time. Dozens of heartbeats, feet running here and there, engines still idling. It crawls underneath her skin, from her center out through her limbs and into her fingers and toes, up the back of her neck into her skull. It feels like someone is pounding a mallet into her sternum.

Closest of all is Lainey’s excited voice and elevated heartbeat. She wants to tell her what’s happening, wants to ask her to make it stop, but all she can do is moan and attempt to disappear into the floor. She can’t breathe, she can’t think.

Just when some of it starts to calm down some, some of the footsteps and heartbeats start moving closer, bringing loud voices with them. Someone is in the basement. It fills her with automatic panic, but she can’t even stop to figure out what it means past the suffocating sensations taking over her body. It’s starting to turn painful. Little pinpricks all over, like fingernails digging into her skin. It won’t stop.

Then someone touches her. Touching means pain, always, but she can’t get away from it. All she can do is lie there, flinching and whimpering as it becomes harder and harder to draw in air. It’s too much. They’re tugging at her shirt, making her back flare with fiery pain, and moving her arms around and messing with the wound on her leg.

All the while their heartbeats pound, pound, pound. Their breaths rake across her skin, their voices pierce her skull. The footsteps above have turned from fingernail pokes to needle pricks, and the engines might as well be cars running over her chest.

Make it stop, make it stop!

But it doesn’t. It goes on and on and on, the hands touching and then lifting her, making everything on her body cry out. There are straps that chafe against her already raw skin, and she’s being jostled, carried, taken away. She doesn’t know where they’re taking her. She doesn’t know where Lainey is. They can’t leave the basement, Sir will be so angry, and she can’t take anymore. She wants Lainey, she wants to wake up and all of this be a fever dream, she wants to stop feeling.And finally, finally, she does. There’s a prick in her arm that she barely feels above everything else, and suddenly everything starts to fade away. No more vibrations, no more pressure, no more pain. Heavy with relief, Isa drifts off into a deep sleep.

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a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all · 1 year

Text

I Got You

Whumpuary 2023: Prompt 2. Infection

Fandom: DC, The Suicide Squad, Rick Flag

Summary: The mission went from bad to worse. After you are injured, Rick manages to get you to the safe house. However, after an infection sets in, is there anything else he can do?

Word Count: 1203

TW: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Stab Wound, Blood, Infection, Fever, Chills, Tourniquet, Ambiguous Ending

Note: Thank you to @mayhem24-7forever for the request for some Rick hurt/comfort! Sorry if this isn't exactly what you were hoping for 😬 Written as part of @whumpuary's event.

Rick ripped out the remaining pages from the last book and tossed them into the dwindling fire. It wasn’t much but the flames did flare just a little bit brighter for a moment. Yet he knew the fire couldn’t last much longer, and with nothing else to burn, it would soon go out.

When he turned his back on the fireplace and faced the couch, he could see the pile of blankets shaking even from this distance. The only visible part of you was the small patch of skin from your eyebrows down to your mouth, and yet, it was obvious you were still freezing.

Rick ran his hand over the back of his neck as he desperately tried to think of some other way to keep you warm. But there was nothing left in the cabin. With a sigh, he thought about how disastrous this mission had gone…

It was a stealth mission which meant it was just the two of you this time. Once you had managed to infiltrate the building, you split up to each take care of your own individual tasks. However, once Rick finished his part and made it to the rendezvous spot, you weren’t there. He waited for almost five minutes, but when you still didn’t appear, he knew something was wrong. So, despite his orders regarding this sort of situation, he headed down the hall in the direction he had last seen you disappear.

When he found you, you were on the floor, half slumped over, half propped against the wall. Immediately, Rick noticed a large, bloody knife wound on your upper thigh. A sloppily applied tourniquet was wrapped around your leg, but you hadn’t had the angle or strength left to tighten it as much as necessary. Despite your best attempts, blood was still trickling from the wound into a growing pool beneath you.

As you heard him approach, your eyes flickered towards him, and you smiled. “Hey, Colonel. Am I glad to see you.”

Rick knelt down beside you and allowed his fingers to ghost over your injury. You flinched but didn’t make a sound. As he examined it, he asked, “What happened?”

You gestured towards the body of a guard lying on the other side of the room. “I thought he just had a gun. I disarmed him, but the next thing I knew, he had a knife buried to the hilt in my leg. Once I took him down, I managed to crawl over here, but I couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

Rick sighed heavily, as he placed his hands on the tourniquet. “I have to tighten this and it’s gonna hurt like hell. You good?”

You nodded. Your fingers curled weakly into the fabric on the arm of his tact jacket, and you squeezed your eyes shut. Without any sort of warning, Rick pulled the tourniquet as tight as possible. Your eyes shot open, and your fingers clawed frantically at his arm, yet, luckily, you were able to keep yourself from screaming and alerting others to your presence. You collapsed back against the wall, panting but giving him a small nod to let him know you were alright.

Once Rick made sure the tourniquet was holding, he helped ease you to your feet. Then, he slung your arm over his shoulder and half carried, half dragged you out of the building. Luckily, there was a safehouse only half a mile or so away from your location. However, it soon became clear you could never make the trek. So, Rick lifted you into his arms and carried you the rest of the way.

The shivering didn’t start until he was approaching the cabin. It was only then that he began to feel you shaking in his arms and hear the slight chattering of your teeth. He hurried inside and laid you down on the couch. Slicing open the side of your pants to give him a better view of your injury, his heart sank. The skin around your wound was hot and swollen, a clear first sign of an infection. And when he applied some pressure to it, a strange fluid leaked out of the cut. It was not a good sign. You needed antibiotics and stitches and soon. Yet as he looked around, Rick saw nothing but a few threadbare blankets and a small stack of books.

Grabbing the blankets, he wrapped them around you as carefully as he could. Then, he tossed a few books into the fireplace and managed to get a small flame burning. For the next two hours, he continued to stoke the fire while your shivering continued to grow worse, despite his best efforts. And now, he was out of options.

Walking back to the couch, he tried to gauge how bad your condition was. Your face was covered with a thick layer of sweat and your eyes looked glassy under your heavy lids. Despite the fire and the layer of blankets, your entire body continued to shiver uncontrollably, and your blue-tinted lips quivered in the firelight.

Kneeling down next to you, Rick placed his hand on your forehead and wasn’t surprised to find that it was scalding hot to the touch. If he didn’t get you help soon–

“Rick…”

The single word caused him to snap out of his musing as his eyes darted to your face. You were still shaking just as much, but your eyes were opened wider, and they looked slightly clearer than before.

Resting his hand on your head, Rick whispered, “Hey, darlin’. How ya feelin’?”

“I’m s-so cold,” you stuttered, trying to draw the thin blankets tighter around you.

“I know. The fire’s goin’ out but I’m gonna try to find somethin’ else to burn.”

“Don’t. Just go… please. S-sooner or later, they’ll f-find us here. J-just leave me and s-save yourself before it’s t-too late.”

Rick shook his head as he stroked your scalding cheek. “Never. I’m not goin’ anywhere without you. Waller will send an extraction team soon and we’ll get you patched up. Until then, we just have to wait it out.”

“B-but Rick–”

“I’m the commandin’ officer and I make the decisions. And I’m stayin’ by your side ‘til the end.”

You nod slightly, tears forming in your eyes. “I’m afraid th-that may be s-sooner than we think.”

“No. You’re gonna beat this, we just need to get you warmer.” He looked around the room one more time for anything that they could possibly burn, but there was nothing. Sighing, he tapped your shoulder. “Scoot over.”

Your face scrunched in confusion, but you did as he said, carefully easing yourself tightly against the back of the couch. Once a small area in front of you had been created, Rick climbed onto the couch and pulled you into his arms, all the while mindful of your leg. You buried your face into the warmth of his neck and he felt your quaking all along the full length of his body.

Pulling you in even closer so you could take full advantage of his body heat, he ran his hand over the back of your head as he whispered, “It’s okay. I got you, darlin’, I got you.”

Taglist: @nik2blog, @zebralover, @dumb-fawkin-bitch, @shirley2996

#whumpuary #whumpuary 2023 #whumpuaryno2 #infection #fic #rick flag #rick flag x reader #rick flag x you #colonel rick flag #colonel rick flag x reader #the suicide squad #joel kinnaman #angst #hurt/comfort #hurt & comfort #fever tw #stab wound tw #blood tw #ambiguous ending tw

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a-reader-and-a-writer · 1 year

Text

I Got You

Whumpuary 2023: Prompt 2. Infection Fandom: DC, The Suicide Squad, Rick Flag

Summary: The mission went from bad to worse. After you are injured, Rick manages to get you to the safe house. However, after an infection sets in, is there anything else he can do?

Word Count: 1203

TW: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Stab Wound, Blood, Infection, Fever, Chills, Tourniquet, Ambiguous Ending

Note: Thank you to @mayhem24-7forever for the request for some Rick hurt/comfort! Sorry if this isn't exactly what you were hoping for 😬 Written as part of @whumpuary's event.

As you heard him approach, your eyes flickered towards him, and you smiled. “Hey, Colonel. Am I glad to see you.”

Rick knelt down beside you and allowed his fingers to ghost over your injury. You flinched but didn’t make a sound. As he examined it, he asked, “What happened?”

Rick sighed heavily, as he placed his hands on the tourniquet. “I have to tighten this and it’s gonna hurt like hell. You good?”

Kneeling down next to you, Rick placed his hand on your forehead and wasn’t surprised to find that it was scalding hot to the touch. If he didn’t get you help soon–

“Rick…”

Resting his hand on your head, Rick whispered, “Hey, darlin’. How ya feelin’?”

“I’m s-so cold,” you stuttered, trying to draw the thin blankets tighter around you.

“I know. The fire’s goin’ out but I’m gonna try to find somethin’ else to burn.”

“Don’t. Just go… please. S-sooner or later, they’ll f-find us here. J-just leave me and s-save yourself before it’s t-too late.”

“B-but Rick–”

“I’m the commandin’ officer and I make the decisions. And I’m stayin’ by your side ‘til the end.”

You nod slightly, tears forming in your eyes. “I’m afraid th-that may be s-sooner than we think.”

Pulling you in even closer so you could take full advantage of his body heat, he ran his hand over the back of your head as he whispered, “It’s okay. I got you, darlin’, I got you.”

Taglist: @loverhymeswith, @babblydrabbly, @lorecraft, @green-socks, @yespolkadotkitty, @marvelousmermaid, @heresathreebee, @11thstreetvigilante, @lacontroller1991, @merlehs, @sunshineflowerchild789, @mayhem24-7forever, @lovearne, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @that-sarcastic-writer, @indig0nebula, @katjnordstrom96, @wildbornsiren

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cakeinthevoid · 7 months

Text

Forget It

Whumptober No. 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

Thermometer | Delirium | “They don't care about you.” —— (1, 2, 3)

Content: War time setting, Reluctant Caretaker, unnamed casualty, fever, unreliable (caretaker) POV, mentioned/implied near death experience

Not usually crazy about military scenarios but for some reason it's the only one that came to mind with these prompts! Enjoy :) In advance: Yes, Capn is the name of their Leader. If you've been on my blog you know 9/10 times I'm lazy with names lmao

Mags was getting real sick of their new captive. They hadn’t even wanted to pick her off the field. For starters, she was Rithkusen. Second, keeping prisoners of war alive was more effort than it was worth.

As proven by the fact that the girl they picked up was now running a high fever. Worse yet, Capn decided Mags had to treat it because their medic was tending to their own casualties. Mags was just getting a terrible coffee and Capn snagged them away before the old machine could finish its job. A terrible case of bad place bad time that Mags was becoming known for.

Speaking of bad place—the prisoner brig was disgusting. The girl wasn’t their only prisoner and Mags had to walk through a dozen other grimy cells to reach her room. Why Capn wanted her in the room, Mags didn’t know. Couldn’t be because she was on the younger side—there was another prisoner who looked her age down the dark hall.

“What are you waiting for? Can’t come up with a killer line for your entrance?” Speak of the devil.

Mags was standing in front of the room, key and med kit in one hand. Worst part was, the kid was right, in a way. Mags had no clue what to say to the girl.

Luckily the kid’s words solved the issue; Mags would say nothing at all. Nothing meaningful, anyway.

And so they didn’t even reply as they unlocked the heavy door and stepped in.

Mags squinted at the overly bright lights. Going from the dim and dank hall to glaring white walls was jarring enough. They shut the door behind them, and in a few blinks they could see the girl curled up on the slab jutting out of the wall.

She was still in Rithkusen frontline uniform; Deep maroons and browns, stained with varying shades of maroons and browns—blood and dirt. Mags always thought that was a silly uniform to have. Then again, their side of the fight wore white and green, which could stick out like a sore thumb at times.

Despite that, the Vanctan were winning, so Mags had no real reason to judge war time fashion. Especially when the war would be over soon. They were going to win.

Which is also why Mags saw no purpose to racking up POWs.

Mags approached the bed and set their kit at the foot of it. The girl hardly filled up half, shivering with the blanket over her head.

Mags took out a thermometer—it was one of the newer versions that just had to be held to the forehead for a reading. They came up to the head of the bed and pulled off the blanket so they could access the face.

They expected at least some resistance, but the girl just let out a whine and curled up tighter, scrunching her eyes.

Mags tried to do their job dispassionately, but the girl really was young. They weren’t an extremist, but sometimes they thought kids should be banned from the effort.

The girl was running a fever high enough to warrant those special pills, instead of the cheaper ones given out on the frontlines. Mags wanted to give her the cheap ones, but Capn clearly wanted the girl alive and it would be wise not to invoke his wrath.

They rummaged for the bottle and took out a single pill. How to make her take it was beyond them.

They tried taking her hand to put the pill between her fingers. The girl gripped their hand in return.

“Hey—“ Mags tried to pull back, but the hold was tight. “Let go and take the pill, girl.”

As if Mags needed more proof the girl was ill, she started spouting nonsense.

“Keal, Keal, Keal—I knew it, I was right! We can do it, I can prove it—“ she wheezed before devolving into a coughing fit. “The crater—exists,” she choked out.

Mags pulled back sharply and successfully. She had to report that. If the crater existed… Maybe Capn already knew—that’s why he kept the girl. But how did she know? Why wasn’t there more security around her? She was found dying on the field—she would have—should have died.

“K-Keal?” she coughed out.

“They don’t care about you,” Mags said, mostly to themself in realization. “They left you to die when you could have changed everything,” they said in a hollow voice.

“Keal—what are you t—turn off the lights, I can’t see—“

“I’m not Keal, girl.”

“Where is everyone? Keal, please…”

Mags needed to report. They also needed the girl to take the damn pill. Desperate times, desperate measure and all that…

Mags grabbed the girls hair with one hand—when her mouth opened in pain and shock, Mags popped in the pill and shut her jaw with their free hand.

Finally, the girl’s eyes shot open. They were wide with terror, but they weren’t seeing.

“Mm—“

“This is a pill. To help you. Swallow it now.”

She shook her head vigorously. At least she could hear.

“I’m not asking. You’re going to swallow or suffocate.” In a quick move, Mags changed their hold to pin her arms down with a knee and one hand, and keep her mouth shut and nose plugged with the other.

The girl twisted, but Mags was much stronger. It was hardly a fight.

“Take the blasted pill or die!”

Mags saw her swallow and let go. The girl took in a desperate breath of air before Mags took hold of her jaw again to inspect. The pill was swallowed. They weren’t sure that would actually work.

They let go for a final time and stepped back, picking up the first aid kit on their way out.

The girl was sobbing.

At least the war would be over soon.

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thegrandharveyspecter · 9 months

Text

Trip to a Coffee Shop; a Harvey & Scott Drabble Part Thirteen: The Sick Ant

"Harvey? Tell me that's you." Scott's voice, hoarse and scratchy, called from behind the counter seconds after Harvey entered the coffee shop. Harvey couldn't see him. "I need help."

Harvey tried to squash the worry as he hurried behind the counter. Sitting on the floor, slumped against the counter, was Scott Lang looking absolutely miserable. He was coated in sweat, there were bags under his eyes, his hair was a scruffy mess and there were splats of vomit on his shirt.

"Jesus, you look like shit," Harvey said, kneeling in front of him. "How long have you been sitting here?"

"Too long. Waaay too long," Scott groaned. "I tried to make my way to my room but I collapsed halfway. I kept throwing up and my body feels numb and..."

"It's okay, kid. I'll get you to your room," Harvey said, schooling his voice into something gentle. "We'll change your shirt too. Come on."

Harvey stood and held his hand out for Scott to take, and he did so with a poor excuse of a grip. Harvey slowly helped Scott stand, though he still slouched and he had to take a few deep breaths to calm himself before they could move.

Thankfully, Scott's room was right behind the counter so they didn't have to walk that far to his bed. It still took a little time thanks to how slow they had to move, and it was clear that Scott was struggling to not throw up again. Harvey carefully sat Scott on his bed.

"Lift your arms for me," he instructed.

The fact that Scott did so without protesting or complaining was a testament to how miserable he really was. Harvey pulled Scott's dirty shirt off and threw it in the laundry basket. He went to his small wardrobe and searched until he found a muscle shirt. Scott was able to slip it on himself.

While Scott laid on his back, Harvey went to the storage room/kitchen and got a bowl for Scott to throw up in. Before leaving, he grabbed an icepack from the freezer and a hand towel.

"You don't have to stay," Scott said when Harvey came back. "I just needed to get back to my room."

"I'm staying whether you like it or not," Harvey replied. He put the bowl and hand towel on the nightstand.

He placed the icepack on Scott's forehead and the guy practically jumped out of his skin. "COLD!"

"Obviously," Harvey said, dryly. "Keep that on your forehead. It'll help. Do you have any medicine here?"

Scott shook his head. Harvey sighed. "Alright, I'll be back in a bit with some medicine then. Stay here, don't get up from bed. There's a bowl on the nightstand for when you need to throw up."

"Thank you, Harvey..."

Harvey shrugged, lightly ruffled Scott's sweat-soaked hair. "Get some rest. I'll be back soon."

With that, Harvey's day of taking care of a Sick Scott Lang started. He bought cough syrup, Tylenol, different cans of soup, other cold medicine. Was it a bit excessive? Maybe. But it was just in case Scott got another fever. This way, he wouldn't run out quickly.

Throughout the day, Scott was in and out of consciousness. Most times when he woke up, he'd vomit, complain about the cough syrup, and pass out again. He was never awake long enough for Harvey to ask if he was willing to try some soup.

There was a time where Scott started freaking out, claiming that he was dying. He didn't want to die yet, he had to live and watch Cassie grow up because he missed time. He freaked out so bad, Harvey called Cassie and had her talk Scott to sleep. The poor child was scared for her dad. It took a while for Harvey to assure her that her dad wasn't really dying.

Around 10:30PM, Harvey tried to get Scott to eat some soup. Of course, the kid was pouting and whining, saying he'd only throw it up. Harvey agreed with that, but Scott still needed to eat. It took a whole fifteen minutes to convince Scott to have a couple spoonful's.

Somehow, Scott managed to keep it down but he passed out shortly after. When he was out again, Harvey cleaned up the vomit bowl, replaced Scott's icepack, and put the rest of the soup in the microwave for later. He turned all the lights off in the shop, locked the front door and sat next to Scott's bed.

XXX

Scott still felt miserable when he woke up the next afternoon, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the day before. He didn't even throw up as soon as he woke up. He wasn't as hot, probably because he had two icepacks on him now. It was hard to keep his eyes open but he didn't want to drift into a nightmare about dying.

He licked his dry lips, shifted onto his side, one of his icepacks sliding down his forehead. He adjusted it and yawned loudly. It felt great to be awake and not want to throw up. When Scott looked up, he blinked, surprised at the sight.

Harvey was still sitting in the same chair, out like a light, no doubt exhausted from caring for Scott the day prior. Thankfully, the man didn't look like he was getting sick.

There was a comfortable warmth in Scott's chest. He smiled at the thought that Harvey stayed the whole time. Down the line, whenever Harvey needed his assistance, Scott was going to stay as long as he needed.

If only everyone knew that Harvey Specter wasn't as rough and cold as people thought he was.

#Harvey Specter #Suits #antvnger #Scott Lang #Coffee Shop Owner Scott Lang #Normal Harvey Specter #Harvey cares for a Sick Scott #it's been forever since I've written anything omg #you can thank Google docs for that #this is also a long one #I tried to have it be short but sickfics are hard to keep short #at least for me lmao #vomit tw #fever tw #coffee shop au #drabble

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dcmetriadcvonne · 1 year

Conversation

📞 phonecall ... 𝐉𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐒

[ waiting for him to answer, demi cradled sick little kori in her arms ]

demi: nick? kori has a fever and i'm currently in an uber right now with her on the way to the doctors since my fucking blind ass can't drive.

[ it was evident in their voice that they were trying not to panic so much. especially with kori's little whimpers were heard. ]

demi: her fever wouldn't go down so i didn't know what to do, and i thought that it was best to take her and i'm freaking the fuck out. just please meet us there, okay?

#❛ ✝ 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 ╱ … ( PHONECALL )#❛ ✝ 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ╱ … ( NICK JONAS )#fever tw #sick tw

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thechaoticfanartist · 2 years

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Grim getting sick and having a fever and being delirious because of that fever and forgetting she's in Star Wars and thinking she's still on Earth

#star wars #star wars the clone wars #my oc #star wars oc #jedi oc #grim kennet #fever tw #tw fever #cw fever #fever cw

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salembutnotthecat · 3 months

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Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Seven

@monthofsick

day seven: too feverish to think

i started fics for day five and day six but i experienced some offline health issues (ironic, right?) so i’ll either post them later and tag them or just post them on their own after the event. we’ll see.

decided to write another flashback fic. this time of novak in college. totally, definitely, absolutely not based off true events.

this fic happens around novak’s junior year of college.

if you have questions, comments, or requests, feel free to send!

tw emeto, sickness, overwork, stress, panic attack, fainting

Novak sat on his bed, leaning against the wall. He was hunched over his notes, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to ward off the exhaustion creeping into his bones.

He grabbed his phone. He checked the time.

3:27AM

Benji stirred in his bunk, his sleep-addled brain registering the soft rustle of papers and the occasional frustrated sigh emanating from his roommate's direction.

With a groan, he rolled over.

"Novak," Benji's voice was exhausted, but he still seemed worried. "You still at it? Have you even slept?"

Novak looked up, "Yeah, just trying to cram for midterms," he mumbled, forcing a smile. "I'll crash in a bit, don't worry about me."

But Benji wasn't convinced. He could see the telltale signs of exhaustion etched into Novak's features, the paleness of his skin, the tremor in his hands as he reached for another textbook.

“Dude, you don't look so good. Maybe you should take a break, get some rest.” Benji said, “Your health is more important than acing these exams."

Novak waved off his concerns, brushing them aside with a dismissive gesture. "I'll be fine, Benji. Just a little tired, that's all. I can't afford to slack off"

“Alright, whatever dude,” Benji said, rolling back over to go back to sleep.

Despite the mounting discomfort, Novak dragged himself to his morning classes, his head pounding and his body aching with every step.

He was freezing when his alarm went off, telling him it was time for class. He slept for maybe two hours, but he felt like he didn’t sleep at all.

Novak pulled himself out of bed, grabbed his sweatshirt, tied back his hair, and grabbed his things.

Breakfast was the last thing on his mind, but the way his head spun and he stumbled into the wall, he knew he had to eat something.

As he sat in his marketing lecture, Novak struggled to focus on the professor's words, his mind clouded by the persistent throbbing in his temples.

The quick breakfast he grabbed had long settled like a rock in his stomach, a queasy sensation churning in the pit of his stomach.

He tried to focus. He did. Now was not the time to not focus. But, he couldn’t make out what the professor was saying. Let alone take notes or retain anything.

He tried to drink some water, take some medicine. Despite his best efforts, Novak's condition continued to deteriorate. Each step became a struggle? his body weighed down by the relentless onslaught of fever and nausea.

As he stumbled through the halls of his college, Novak's world blurred into a hazy fog of discomfort, his mind struggling to grasp the simplest of concepts.

In class, the words of his professors seemed to float in one ear and out the other, lost amidst the cacophony of pain and fatigue that consumed him.

Desperately, he tried to focus, but the fever had dulled his senses, leaving him adrift in a sea of confusion.

Nausea clawed at his stomach. With each passing minute, the urge to just go back to his dorm room and crash for a week was getting stronger. The desire to escape the suffocating confines of the lecture hall and take a cool shower and just sleep this off.

Novak was still holding out on not being sick. He couldn’t be sick. Especially because being sick was brutal on him, more brutal than it was on others. He had always been that way. And it was horrible.

But if he skipped class he couldn’t go to practice. He couldn’t play.

He had to tough it out. Just until midterms were over.

As Novak made it onto the practice field, the weight of his illness hung heavy upon him, each step a struggle against the relentless tide of fatigue and discomfort.

The sun beat down mercilessly, its searing rays only serving to exacerbate the fever that he was sure he had.

Despite the mounting agony, Novak forced a stoic mask onto his face, unwilling to show any sign of weakness to his teammates or coaches.

Novak clenched his jaw, he pushed himself through the grueling drills and punishing workouts, his body screaming in protest with every movement. If he wanted any chance of going professional, he couldn’t afford to lose out on practice or a single game.

As practice dragged on, Novak's strength waned, his limbs growing heavier with each passing minute. Nausea clawed at his insides, threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.

The coach barked out orders, his voice a distant echo in Novak's ears as he fought to keep his focus amidst the haze of fever-induced delirium.

But as the afternoon wore on and the sun dipped below the horizon, Novak was, for lack of better explanation, fucking up royally.

His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges of his consciousness as he struggled to remain upright. With each passing minute, the world seemed to tilt on its axis, threatening to make him pass out. Or vomit. Something.

Yet still, he refused to quit. With every ounce of strength left within him, Novak pushed himself to the brink. Every bit of energy he could pull was put into finishing out the practice.

He had to finish.

As Novak stumbled back into the dimly lit dorm room, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, it was evident to Benji that something was seriously wrong.

“Okay. Study, class, practice, now you can sleep, right?” Benji spoke.

Novak shook his head, “Not even close.” He said, setting his bag down by his desk.

Novak grabbed the sweater from the corner of his bed pulling it on.

“I’m… fucking freezing…” Novak mumbled.

Benji watched in concern as Novak sank into his chair, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead as he attempted to bury himself in his books. But it was clear that the fever had taken its toll, the lines of fatigue etched into Novak's features betraying his struggle to remain upright.

“That’s the sweater your mom sent you,” Benji said, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? I think the last time I saw you wear it you were stuck in bed with a migraine…”

Novak waved him off with a weak smile, his voice strained with effort. "I'm fine, just a little under the weather, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

But as Novak attempted to focus on his studies, the fever raged unchecked, a relentless drumbeat of pain and discomfort that refused to be ignored. His vision swam before his eyes, the words on the page blurring into a meaningless jumble of letters and symbols.

With a soft sigh, Novak felt his eyelids growing heavy, his body succumbing to the overwhelming urge to sleep. But before he could succumb to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, Benji's voice cut through the haze, jolting him awake.

"Gwt in bed,” Benji said. Suddenly his roommate was beside him, shutting his marketing textbook.

“Hey I was studying-“

“Novak, you should really get some rest," Benji started. "You look like you're about to pass out."

Novak's stomach churned violently, a wave of nausea washing over him with sickening intensity.

He buried his face in his hands with a soft whine, shaking his head. He could feel his own fever. Could feel the way his stomach churned. God he felt so sick. When did he start feeling so fucking sick?

Novak's heart hammered in his chest, a relentless drumbeat of panic echoing in his ears as he fought to regain control of his trembling limbs. He forced himself to take slow, steady breaths, attempting to make everything feel less overwhelming.

Novak's hands trembled as he fought to suppress the panic threatening to engulf him. His whole body felt like it was buzzing, like despite the fever there was a live wire running through him.

“Novak..?” Benji asked.

"I'm... I'm fine," Novak managed to choke out, though the words felt hollow and insincere even to his own ears. "Just... need a minute."

But even as he spoke, the nausea intensified, a vicious reminder of his body's betrayal. Not only was he sick, but he was sure he was experiencing… something.

His throat constricted, a bitter taste flooding his mouth as he struggled to hold back the inevitable tide of vomit.

With a desperate lurch, Novak lunged for the trash can by his desk, his stomach convulsing as he retched violently into the bin. Hot tears stung his eyes as he emptied the contents of his stomach once more. He felt his nose running.

“Novak… jesus…,” Benji said, pulling back Novak’s hair.

Novak's chest tightened with each ragged breath, the weight of his sickness and panic pressing down on him like a leaden blanket.

The sensation of Benji's hands on his back, trying to comfort him, only served to exacerbate his distress, sending waves of overwhelming stimulation crashing over him.

"Please... just... stop," Novak gasped between heaves, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of his own suffering. "I can't... I can't..."

But even as he spoke, another wave of nausea crashed over him, leaving him trembling and helpless in its wake. He could feel the panic rising within him, a relentless tide threatening to consume him whole.

There was nothing he could do to stop the vomiting. He was sure his fever was making his panic all the worse. But maybe, maybe that he could fix.

Novak did the only thing he knew to do for the panic. He hugged himself, tried to take breaths between waves of vomiting. He clutched his sleeves in his fists.

Benji pulled his hands away, stepped back. Being a psychology major, Benji could see the panic. The overstimulation.

“I'm sorry, Novak," Benji said, taking another step back “I just... I don't know what to do."

But Novak had no answer to give, no solace to offer in the face of his own torment. The fever made the panic worse. The panic made the nausea worse. The nausea was worse. Novak was going to throw up again.

Benji fetched another trash can, Novak braced himself for the next onslaught, his body wracked with pain and exhaustion.

As Novak's body convulsed with each retch, his fevered mind spiraled further into irrationality, the panic gripping him tighter with each passing moment.

The cycle of sickness and distress seemed never-ending, a relentless onslaught that left him gasping for breath and clinging to the edge of consciousness.

Finally, as the last vestiges of bile dribbled from his lips, Novak slumped back in his chair, his body trembling with exhaustion and his mind reeling from the ordeal.

The room spun around him, the walls closing in as if to swallow him whole, and he fought against the encroaching darkness that threatened to claim him.

Benji hovered nearby, his expression a mixture of concern and helplessness as he watched Novak's struggle.

“You really need to lie down," Benji urged, his voice barely audible over the pounding of Novak's heart in his ears.”Can I touch you to help-“

“No… please, please no…” Novak said. The thought of Benji’s, or anyone’s actually, hands on him make his skin crawl.

Novak forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him as he staggered towards the safety of his bed. Each step felt like he was walking a mile, his vision swimming and his senses overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of his exhaustion.

But just as he reached the edge of his bed, a wave of dizziness washed over him. He felt his head tilt back, felt like his knees might buckle beneath him. He reached for the first thing he could reach, thankfully the edge of his bed. His fingers dug into the fabric as he fought to keep himself upright.

"Novak, are you okay?" Benji's voice sounded distant, as if coming from the other end of a long tunnel.

But Novak could barely hear him over the roar of his own heartbeat, his world spinning out of control as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.

He moved one more time. Everything gave out at once. His vision, his body, his hearing, every sensation disappeared instantly.

He felt his head hit his arm as he landed on what he could only hope was his bed.

As Novak slowly regained consciousness, the world around him swam into focus, his senses gradually coming back to life after what felt like an eternity lost in the void. His head throbbed with a dull ache, a relentless pulse that seemed to echo with each beat of his heart.

Blinking against the harsh glare of the overhead light, Novak turned his head to find Benji sitting nearby, his brow furrowed with concern as he poured over his textbooks.

As their eyes met, Benji's expression softened, relief flooding his features at the sight of Novak awake.

"Hey, man, you're finally up," Benji said, his voice tinged with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. "How are you feeling?"

Novak tried to speak, but his throat was dry and everything hurt.

“Like I got hit by a truck," he managed to rasp out, his words slurred with fatigue.

Benji nodded sympathetically, reaching out to gently squeeze Novak's shoulder.

“You've been out for a while," he explained, his voice gentle. "Like a day and a half or something. You had a really high fever and a pretty bad panic attack. I've been keeping an eye on you, making sure you're okay."

Novak's brow furrowed in confusion, his memory hazy and fragmented. He sat up slowly, pulling a knee to his chest, resting his head in his hand and using his fingers to block out some of the light in the room.

“Here,” Benji said. There was a click of a lamp, then Benji got up and turned off the lights, “That should help…”

I don't... I don't remember much," he admitted, his voice tinged with frustration.

Benji sighed, his expression sympathetic. "Yeah, you were pretty out of it," he said, reaching for a bottle of water on the bedside table and offering it to Novak. "You woke up a couple of times to drink or be sick, but you were mostly out of it."

As Novak took a sip of water, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling of unease that settled in the pit of his stomach.

"I still feel... off," he murmured, his hand instinctively reaching for his head as a sharp pang of pain shot through his temples.

Benji frowned, his concern deepening. "You might be dehydrated from being sick for so long," he suggested, his voice tinged with worry. "Is there anything else we should worry about?”

“My head is just killing me,” Novak said, taking another sip of water before lying back down as the room seemed to tilt a little.

“Migraine maybe,” Benji said, “From being so sick and all.”

Novak nodded weakly, his body still heavy with fatigue and his mind clouded with confusion.

“Still tired… somehow,” Novak mumbled.

“Get some rest,” Benji said, “Trust me. You need plenty for all the makeup midterms you need to do.”

#emeto #sickfic #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #fever cw #fever tw #emetophilia #novemetober 2023 #fainting tw #fainting cw #panic attack tw #panic attack cw #i really just went ham on this poor boy and im not sorry #novemetober rescheduled

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