#summerofwhump23

[blogger360ncislarules]

Undercover op turns traumatic.

@summer-of-whump

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #ncis la #my work #ncis la drabble #langer

[sideblogformindtrash]

SUMMER OF WHUMP- DAY 23 - SICK

CW: pet whump; dehumanization; sickness; fever; bait dog; fight dog; beating; collar;

Bait chuckled, their little collar bell making an annoying little sound as they moved. They were in pain, despite no one having hurt them today. Of course, old wounds still hurt, they felt warm and swollen now. Their head lolled to the side, and they felt Spike’s eyes on them.

Spike was scared. Normally, he towered over Bait, every once in a while taking his anger down on them, covering them in punches. Especially when they moved a lot, Spike hated the sound of the little bell, and Bait was easy prey. But today, Spike was scared, cowering as far away from Bait as he could, wrapped in his blanket, body pressed on the corner of the wall trying to appear small.

That’s because Bait was sick. Bait could be sick, it didn’t matter too much, but Spike couldn’t afford to. If he was, he wouldn’t be able to fight, and losing fights would get him punished severely. So, he was curling away, scared. Bait almost wanted to stand and walk to them, just to watch them scramble, but the effort wasn’t worth it.

Instead, they shot him a pleading glance. They wanted the blanket. They were cold. But Spike was always very protective of it. Bait lay down on it once, and got beaten for it. It wasn’t even prompted by Master that time, Spike was just angry. He felt bad for it later, and cuddled with Bait, letting them have a piece of the blanket as well.

“P-please is? Is so cold…”

“...If you have a fever, it will make you worse” Spike said, hugging the blanket “...You need to be a bit chill. Is good for you”

“...But it's cold” Bait nudged at their mattress. It was so worn they could nearly feel the floor under them, but it was the best bed Bait ever had. They grunted. Their throat was dry and… and it felt so hot, and so cold at the same time. They wanted water “S-s-spike… Water? P-please?”

Butus curled up even further against his wall, shooting an annoyed glance at Bait.

“Get it yourself”

...Bait didn’t blame him. Spike would get problems if he couldn’t fight. But Bait was hurting. Bait wished someone would take care of them. They had to get up and cross the entire room until the bathroom, get water from the sink, and back.

Bait struggled to their feet, a soft pained moan as they got up, their head stinging. For a moment, they felt like they would black out, but they managed to tumble until the cup. They dropped it, but that was fine. Master had low hopes for Bait and their cup was plastic, so it didn’t break. They got down to take it, and this time they went out,their head lolling to the side, the entire world spinning as they fell to the floor.

Bait didn’t feel like getting up again, they just… Stayed.

Spike sighed in annoyance, using a shirt to wrap his face. Then, carefully, he got Bait back from the floor and carried them back into the mattress, as if they weighed nothing. Bait wanted to hold them. It felt good to be touched so nicely. But Spike’s kindness was… limited. They moaned, their throat still dry.

“S-spike! N-no, W-w-ater…”

“I’ll get it for you, shut up” And Spike picked up the plastic cup from their hands, filling it on their sink and taking it to Bait’s lips, holding their head to help them drink.

Water was good. They nodded softly, closing their eyes and nudging to try and sleep as soon as they finished it. Spike placed something on their forehead, a wet rag, then quietly washed his hands and sat back on their corner.

“If I win tonight’ fight, I’ll ask for doctor for you, Bait”

“Ehehe… thank you, Spike”

Bait drifted off to sleep.

tagging: @summer-of-whump@pinkraindropsfell

#BB: Baby Blue #summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #pet whump #whump

[cyhyr]

Summer of Whump Day 23: Sick

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: G

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka

WC: ~930

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Notes: Mentions of vomiting, but not graphic.

A/N: Look it's cute! Whump-fluff!

A/N2: This is the first time I'm trying out the schedule feature for posting, because otherwise this might not get up on time but I have it done so like, why not?

~

Kakashi is swimming in his own head as he steps into the office and raises a hand in acknowledgement to Shikamaru. He feels heavy. Slow.

He sits down at the desk and fights back a chill.

“Rokudaime-sama—”

“No -sama,” he answers automatically.

Shikamaru continues like he hadn’t heard him. “You have to get through at least these three stacks of paperwork before noon. After lunch, you have a visit scheduled to T&I, and after that we finish the day with a stop at the Academy to check in with Naruto and his jōnin studies.”

Kakashi wishes he could focus. But everything is hazy.

“Paperwork, lunch, T&I, Iruka-sensei,” Shikamaru sighs and simplifies his schedule.

He nods. He can do this. He has Iruka to look forward to.

~

The headache gets worse just before lunch. Shikamaru asks if he doesn’t just want to reschedule his afternoon and go home to rest. Kakashi, instead, asks him to go and find some acetaminophen while he finishes up. While Shikamaru’s out of the office, he forms two shadow clones and the three of them tear into the piles of paperwork.

He gets a sizable dent in the stacks by the time Shikamaru comes back. Maybe, if he’s lucky, Shikamaru won’t tell on him to Iruka.

He slumps over his desk with tea and medicine for lunch. The shadow clones might not have been a great idea with a cold.

~

The paperwork leads naturally into S-rank assignments. He sends four teams out over the course of three hours.

He’s surprised he’s managed to keep the tea down. His stomach is revolting. Shikamaru tries to put rice crackers in front of him and Kakashi nearly throws up at the thought of having to ingest them.

“C’mon, Rokudaime-sama,” Shikamaru sighs later in the afternoon.

“No -sama,” Kakashi whines. But he stands anyway and pushes his chair in. He takes his time getting around the desk. The headache has become severe enough that he’s been having dizzy spells for the last hour; standing up did not help. “T&I?” he asks as they finally reach the door.

Shikamaru shakes his head. “I sent a message hours ago to reschedule that for later in the week. It wasn’t critical.”

“Then, where—?”

“The Academy.”

Ah. To see Naruto. And Iruka.

~

Oh shit he has to see Iruka in this state, a part of him screams that this is a bad idea, that he’s going to get yelled at. The larger part of him is ecstatic that he gets to go see Iruka, even if it’s under the guise of checking in on Naruto’s progress.

The Academy is quiet and deserted for the day when they get there. They make it to Iruka’s classroom, and Shikamaru knocks before opening the door.

Kakashi wanders in, zeros in on Iruka and dizzily moves to him. Iruka also leaves the chalkboard to come to him and that’s nice, takes his hands and mutters something, something, something. Naruto’s around, too; his timbre and cadence is impossible to miss, and the volume makes his eyes throb.

He only notices he’s sitting at Iruka’s desk when Iruka puts his palm on his forehead and frowns.

How did he get to the desk?

“Sensei, your hand is so cool, it’s very nice,” he drawls.

“Kakashi-sama, I could fry an egg on your forehead, your fever’s so high. Shikamaru-kun, why—?”

“I’ve tried, sensei. I don’t think he understands how bad it is.”

“No -sama, Iruka,” Kakashi mumbles. “I can’t take a break while my shinobi are all hard at work.”

“You’re setting a bad example, Kakashi-sama.”

“No -sama.”

“You’re working, I’ll call you what I want,” Iruka scoffs. “If Naruto were sick—bad example,I don’t think Naruto can get sick. If Shikamaru-kun were ill, wouldn’t you send him home to rest?”

“Of course.”

“Then why can’t you afford yourself the same courtesy? Actually, don’t answer that,” Iruka holds up a hand, stopping Kakashi from trying to respond. He looks exasperated. Kakashi feels bad for putting such a frowny face on Iruka. “Naruto, we’re done for today. Sorry.”

“It’s alright, Iruka-sensei. Do you want help getting him home?”

“I can manage, thanks. And thank you, too, Shikamaru-kun, for bringing him to me.”

Kakashi puts his head down on the desk so he can’t tell if Shikamaru responds non-verbally.

~

They enter the Hokage residence, Kakashi leaning over Iruka’s shoulders heavily. His stomach turned over finally on the way here, though he didn’t have anything to throw up besides bile and tea. Dry-heaving hurts, and doing so made his headache worse.

Iruka pushes him into bed, covering him with extra blankets and placing a bucket by the nightstand.

“Are you going to take care of me, sensei?” he croaks.

“Of course. Who else is going to deal with you?” Iruka runs his fingers through Kakashi’s hair a few times, and Kakashi closes his eyes in contentment. “I’ll be right back,” Iruka mutters.

Kakashi doesn’t know how long he’s gone. He’s chilly. He’d really like to throw up again, but he has nothing left.

Iruka comes back and slips two fingers under Kakashi’s mask. “Kakashi?” he mutters.

“Hmm?”

“I have medicine and water, but…”

He’s asking for permission to remove his mask, Kakashi realizes. He smiles softly, “Please, Iruka. Medicine sounds wonderful.”

Iruka stays at his side, petting his hair and helping him drink. It gets late.

Kakashi is so tired, and the headache is subdued enough that he could, maybe, get some sleep. He asks, “Will you stay?”

Iruka leans down and kisses his forehead. “Always, love. Go to sleep.”

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #sick #fanfic #hatake kakashi #umino iruka #kakairu #my writing

[hale-13]

Febrile

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 23 - Sick

“Don’t,” Peter grouses, spitting out the last bit of bile in his mouth in the sink in the men’s restroom at Midtown and pointedly ignoring the look of disapproval both Ned and MJ are giving him in the mirror as he rinses his mouth out and washes his hands.

Words: 2101, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & May Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones, Tony Stark, May Parker, Helen Cho

TW: Vomiting

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

“Don’t,” Peter grouses, spitting out the last bit of bile in his mouth in the sink in the men’s restroom at Midtown and pointedly ignoring the look of disapproval both Ned and MJ are giving him in the mirror as he rinses his mouth out and washes his hands.

“Peter,” Ned’s voice is exasperated and he looks irritated. MJ’s face is still (mostly) an indifferent mask but he can see her eyes brows pulling in the way they do when she’s concerned. “This has been going on for three days now,” he complains. “you have got to tell May.”

“Sure don’t,” Peter says, drying his hands off on a scratchy paper towel and trying to surreptitiously blot at his sweaty face before tossing it in the trash.

“You’re an idiot,” MJ tells him with an eye roll and a soft shove of her shoulder. It completely throws off Peter’s limited equilibrium and makes him sway into the wall. Ned’s glare becomes even sharper.

“I’m fine,” Peter tries and even he can hear the lie in his words now. He totally isn’t fine. He’s not fine at all actually. He’s had a fever, vomiting and stomach cramps for going on three days now and he’s just not used to getting and staying sick this long since he got bitten by the spider. A cold or a twenty-four hour hell flu? Sure. Consistent nausea and a low to mid grade fever for seventy-two hours? Unheard of.

“This is pointless,” MJ’s voice is monotone as she tosses Peter his phone which he fumbles, just barely catching it with the tips of sticky fingers.

“When did you take my phone?” He asks confused.

MJ guides him out the door and towards the front office – the exact opposite direction he needs to be going if he’s going to make it to his chemistry class. “I took it from your pocket when you were re-enacting the exorcism. Happy should be here in like ten minutes.”

“MJ,” Peter whines, not putting up a fight when Ned grabs his other arm to help with the pulling and directing. “I don’t need to go home.”

“Yes you do,” Ned’s tone is firm. “No one wants your flu Peter.”

“Alright that’s… fair,” he admits. “But my homework-,”

“We’ll get it for you,” MJ reassures as the office comes into view. She pushes him into one of the chairs sat outside and marches in to speak to the secretary. Peter pouts and crosses his arms. Yeah he feels like shit and he really just wants to sleep and, sure, his lower abdomen is really cramping and hurting but he got shot two weeks ago and the pain isn’t that bad. He can totally handle it. “You’re signed out,” Michelle tells him when she comes back, offering Ned a note to excuse his tardiness. “Let us know that you didn’t die okay loser?”

“Bye Peter!” Ned says brightly, back to his normal self now that he knows Peter is actually going home.

His friends finally gone, Peter drops all pretense and lets his face rest against the cool wall next to him, letting his eyes slip shut in relief – his forehead was burning. He pulled the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands and shivers. Maybe it is good that he goes home. He can take a nap and recuperate and be back at school tomorrow completely better.

Yeah. He just needs to nap.

“Well your scary girlfriend wasn’t kidding,” Mr. Stark’s voice rips Peter out of his near-sleep and has him blotting out of the chair, nearly falling over if he hadn’t caught himself on the way. “You look like shit kiddo.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter squeaks, surprised at seeing his mentor at his freaking school what the hell. “What uh… what are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?” Tony asks with good humor, looking at Peter over the top of his AR glasses with a concerned smile, eyes scraping over him in a clinical way. “I’m here to get you.”

“Uh no offense, but why?” Peter asks, tripping over his book bag on the floor and falling back into the chair. Tony raises an eyebrow.

“Because I’m one of your emergency contacts,” he answers like this is the most obvious thing ever and Peter blinks a little in confusion. Mr. Stark is one of his emergency contacts? Since when? He opens his mouth to ask this very question when a sudden bout of nausea rolls over him and he, instead, scrambles to his feet and down the hall to the nearest bathroom.

He barely makes it to the sink before he starts gagging and dry heaving, nothing coming up but leaving him feeling dizzy and light-headed. Peter leans his head against the porcelain of the sink with a low moan, gagging again on the end and leaning his face back over the sink to drool out the excess saliva in his mouth.

“Yikes,” he hears Mr. Stark mutter behind him and then a calloused hand is running carefully through his hair and resting on his forehead. Peter pushes his face into the cool palm subconsciously and keeps his eyes closed as he tries to push the nausea down. “Yeah you’re definitely coming back to the MedBay with me.”

Peter lets out a wordless whine but doesn’t protest beyond that. It has been three days of this after all – maybe it is a good idea to consult with a professional?

“Come on buddy,” Tony says as he slings Peter’s arm over his shoulder and starts dragging him out of the bathroom and towards the entrance to the school. “You have a date with Dr. Cho and your aunt is waiting to hear the results of her exam.”

Happy actually looks concerned when Peter sees him standing outside of one of the many town cars Mr. Stark owns and he doesn’t say anything when he takes Peter’s bag from Tony to put in the front seat. The leather of the back seats is cool and the interior is darkened by the tinted windows and Peter lets out a sigh of relief, resting his head against the window; already half asleep.

The drive is, thankfully, quick and Peter dozes through most of it – still nauseous but able to hold it down for the most part. Soon enough they pull into the underground garage of the Tower and Tony is hustling him into the elevator which rockets them up to the MedBay floor without either of them having to say anything.

“May wants you to call her once you get settles,” Tony says, rapidly texting on his phone.

Peter squints his eyes at his mentor. “I’m not sure how I feel about you two texting,” he says.

“Oh we’re besties,” Tony teases, pocketing the phone with a shit eating grin. “We have coffee every other Wednesday.”

“I… don’t know if you’re serious,” Peter says, concerned. He probably doesn’t want to know to be honest. The doors of the elevator trundle open and Tony steers Peter into an empty exam room, directing him to sit on the exam bed. It only takes a second before Dr. Cho bustles in.

“Hey Peter,” she says with a smile as she rubs hand sanitizer into her hands and grabs a set of gloves from the box on the wall. “Tony said you were sick. Want to tell me about what’s going on?

“Nausea mostly,” he says as she runs a thermometer across his forehead and frowns at the readout. “My stomach hurts.”

“Well you have a fever of just over one hundred and two,” she says as she clips a pulse ox reader to his finger and wraps a blood pressure cuff around his arm and lets it run. “And your blood pressure is a little low,” she narrows her eyes at the reading and unhooks the machines. “Lay back for me?”

Peter does and stares at the ceiling as she starts to palpate his abdomen. He could probably fall asleep here actually if he – “OW!” He exclaims, curling away from Dr. Cho’s hands and wrapping his arms around his stomach to protect it.

“Well I have a tentative diagnosis,” she says snapping off her gloves. “We’ll do an ultrasound to confirm but, congratulations, Peter you have appendicitis.”

Peter and Tony both blink and then look at each other and then back. “For three days?” Tony questions, scooting Peter over to sit next to him on the bed and run a hand soothingly up and down Peter’s back. It doesn’t stop the stabbing pain in his abdomen but it helps.

“His healing factor is probably slowing down the progression, preventing it from rupturing as quickly as it could or should have,” she says, typing something into Peter’s chart on her StarkPad. “I’ll have a tech confirm with ultrasound and get a surgeon out to do the surgery. It’s pretty quick – one hour tops and then a few days recovery and you’ll be good as new.”

“Surgery?” Peter asks hoarsely, feeling his heart rate speed up. He’s never had surgery before.

Dr. Cho looks up at him and her face softens a little. “It’s an easy procedure,” she promises. “You won’t even realize that you’ve had it really and. Once you wake up, you’ll feel immediately better. Everything will be fine,” she promises and Peter nods with a gulp. He can feel stomach acid rising in his throat again and lunges for the emesis basin sitting on the bedside table, gagging into it.

“Let it all out Webs,” Tony says, rubbing his back sympathetically. “Got anything to help with this doc?”

“I’ll have the nurses start and IV and give him an anti-emetic,” she said, passing a new basin to Tony and taking the one from Peter’s slack grasp. “Just try to relax okay Peter?”

“This sucks,” he grumbles, letting his head fall over to rest on his mentor’s shoulder and relaxing when he feels Tony’s finger scrub though his hair to massage his aching head.

“Sure does kiddo,” Tony agrees, pulling the blanket up to Peter’s chest. “But at least its an easy fix.”

“I don’t want surgery,” Peter tells him quietly. Even with all of his many Spider-Man injuries he’s never had to be put under for anything. “Is May on her way?”

“Happy went to get her,” Tony promises him. “And surgery seems really scary but its not I promise. It’s like taking a really good nap and May and I will both be there alright? It’ll be fine Underoos.”

“Okay,” Peter says quietly, feeling slightly better but still a little concerned. But he would have May and Tony with him. It would be fine.

————————————————

“Guess we still need to tweak the anesthetic formula for you just a bit,” Mr. Stark says apologetically as he mops up the sweat on Peter’s brow with a damp cloth and supports him as he retches again. The surgery had gone well and had been quick. Waking up however?

Not so much.

“Just let it out baby,” May croons as she rubs his back, sweaty and making the thin hospital gown stick to his skin uncomfortably. Peter just gasps a little and squeezes his eyes closed, trying to take deep breaths through his nose to quell his nausea.

“I’m good,” Peter croaks a minute later, letting his aunt settle him back into the bed and fuss over him. He had barely woken up after the surgery before the vomiting started again. It had alarmed Tony but May and Dr. Cho had both determined that it was just a poor reaction to the anesthesia they used. With how fast him metabolism was, it should move through his system quickly.

“Can I get you anything sweetie?” May asked him, brushing his damp hair out of his face and sitting on the edge of the bed facing him.

“I’m okay,” Peter said, his eyes drooping from exhaustion. Tony squeezed his hand and tucked his blanket in a little tighter around him warming Peter up from the inside a little. He was so glad and thankful that he had the chance to get closer with Tony over the last couple months since the incident with the Vulture. The man was still a little awkward and learning how to be a mentor but he was trying and that’s all Peter could ask for. “Just want to sleep,” he said softly, letting his eyes slip closed.

“Okay baby,” he heard May whisper, running her fingers through his hair and Peter felt the ghost of a smile on his face. Yeah, he could probably handle this recovery.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #Prompt: Sick #irondad #spider man #Summer of Whump 2021

[getyourwhumphere]

Summer of Whump: Day 23-Sick

Continuation of Day 22

The pet couldn’t believe how unlucky it was.

Their new master was...sick. A sick, depraved person who wanted to twist the laws of nature, who wanted to turn the pet into something it wasn’t.

The pet didn’t care about how sad they always seemed to look. It had always been told that sick people like them deserved every misfortune that came their way.

And it was never going to become a person like they wanted it to.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #whump #whumpee #pet whump #caretaker

[blackrosesandwhump]

Summer of Whump 23: Sick

A direct continuation of #19, featuring my oc Darien.

@whumping-out-of-time @forthetaintedsorrow-whump

CW: bound to a chair, illness, amnesia

Strapped down and speechless with fear, Darien could only watch as the masked man stepped out of the shadows, silver mask gleaming eerily in the dimming light. Alysse clung to her uncle’s fettered leg, eyes wide.

A deep cough rose in Darien’s chest, thick and painful. He bent over as far as the straps would allow, gasping for breath in between spasms. His vision swam; a wave of lightheadedness washed over him and he clenched his fists, willing himself not to pass out. If he lost consciousness, he would be completely vulnerable. And Alysse would be alone.

“It seems you’re unwell, Darien.” The stranger grabbed his hair, jerked it backward so that Darien had no choice but to look straight at the man that had tortured him for so long. “I didn’t intend for this to happen, but”—his fingers moved downward to grip Darien’s chin—“it does suit my purposes.”

He turned to Alysse, and Darien shut his eyes. His entire body ached. His head felt hot and foggy, dulling his senses. The rest of his body trembled with cold, and each deep cough set his chest throbbing. His body had been all but destroyed from sleeplessness and torture.

“…can come with me.” The masked man’s words cleaved through the fog in his head. His eyes flew open. Alysse was standing next to his tormentor. Alysse, his niece, the one person who hadn’t abandoned him. Her small white hand reached for the black-gloved one as it extended to take hers.

“NO!”

The shout that ripped from his mouth brought another spasm of coughing, but he breathed through it.

“No, I won’t let you take her! Kill me if you want, but don’t lay a hand on her!”

The masked man tilted his head, silent for a moment. Darien panted for breath, sweat trickling down his temple. What was he doing? He had never cared about Alysse before. Why should he try to save her now?

“Well, well.” The man stepped in front of Alysse, and Darien felt the man’s gaze boring into him. “You’ve become a new man, Darien. The old one thought far too much of himself ever to consider giving his life for someone else.”

Before he could doing anything else, Alysse darted forward. She laid a hand on the strap around Darien’s right wrist. Eyes squeezed shut, she mumbled a word Darien couldn’t understand.

The fetter broke. It ripped right in two and fell away. His arm was free.

But that was impossible. He must be dreaming, back in a nightmare. He would wake up any second now, locked in the nightmare chamber again—

“You don’t remember, do you, Darien? You don’t remember that once, you too possessed this tremendous power.”

No, he wasn’t dreaming. He was fully awake, and as Alysse freed his left arm, he began to remember everything.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #sick #whump #whump fic #whump drabble #original character #sickness #illness whump #strapped down #amnesia #magic

[morgana-greenleaf]

Summer of Whump Day 23: Sick/survivor's guilt

@summer-of-whump

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

The Soldier kneels next to his handler’s cold, dead body.

He’s been keeping vigil for hours, maybe days, and sleep claws at him, his stomach churning with hunger, his tongue dry and bloated from lack of water.

It’s his fault.

He could have saved his handler, but he failed.

And now the handler’s dead, never again to laugh, or smile, or eat or drink. Just lie dead, slowly rotting away, while the Soldier endures. Living on and on, for years, decades, never aging, never dying.

The handler’s eyes, once so full of light, of joy after they completed a successful mission, now stare up at the ceiling, empty.

Because he’s dead, and the Soldier is not.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #whump #bucky barnes #bucky barnes whump #hydra #winter soldier #survivor's guilt #my whump ficlets #late.fic #s: bucky barnes whump

[set-phasers-to-whump]

normally

prompt: sick

whumpee: shawn spencer

fandom: psych

hi! welcome to my third psych fic! i am going to be honest i am super happy with the way this turned out! i feel like i’m really starting to Get the characters and i hope that it shows in this fic! (set mid-s4, before shules get together and after woody is introduced).

Shawn feels horrible. Normally, this would be cause for loudly complaining about his misery to anyone that will listen and pretending like he’s actively dying so that people will do things for him because he’s soooo sick. Normally. But unfortunately, he really has to work today. 

It’s his fault, kind of. Really, though, it’s the window company’s fault - anyone who makes glass fragile enough to be shattered by one single blast from a t-shirt cannon has to be held to some degree of responsibility. But it had been him who’d fired the cannon and caused him and Gus to use up nearly all of Psych’s current funds to repair it. So. He needs to work today. 

And it’s not like this case is lame and boring - it’s interesting! He wants to work it, really, honestly. It’s just, he’d rather not work it today. But he figures there aren’t really a lot of other options, so he gets on his bike and rides to the police station, somehow arriving unhurt despite the fact that he’d barely been able to focus on the road. 

He feels kind of like his helmet is trying to kill him the whole way there, and when he finally arrives and parks and pulls it off, his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. Great. 

In the parking lot, Shawn brushes his fingers halfheartedly through his damp hair, trying to fix it up without a mirror. It probably still looks awful, and he can’t stand the thought, but he’s so tired and it’s hard work moving his hands so much, so there’s not much he can do. He just hopes no one notices. 

“Nice hair, Spencer.”

He’s too tired to give Lassie a witty reply. He settles for a glare that feels lukewarm at best and trudges to the Chief’s office without bothering to look around or say good morning to Jules or anything. 

“Shawn, wait up!”

Shawn stops, and Gus hurries up to walk next to him. “Morning, Gus,” Shawn says, and ouch, that hurts. Just wonderful. He’s hot and sweaty and weak and he can’t talk without feeling like he’s swallowed glass. 

“You alright? You’re acting weird.”

Leave it to Gus to cut right to the chase. “I’m fine, Gus,” he says, speaking quietly (which pains him a little, in his heart (and in his throat)). 

“You know that’s a lie.”

“Tell you later,” he decides, and opens the Chief’s door. 

“Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster. Good morning,” she says, looking up from her computer. 

“We heard there was another body,” Gus announces, and the Chief nods. 

“Unfortunately, yes. She was found early this morning by some hikers, in the same area where we found our other victim. Similar wounds, similar appearance. We may be dealing with a serial killer.”

Ordinarily, this would be a statement that is met with some kind of reaction, but Shawn finds he doesn’t particularly have it in him to react at all.  

“Really?” Gus asks for the both of them, equal parts concerned and interested. 

“We can’t be sure yet, but it is a possibility. I’d like you two to head down to the morgue and see if you can get a reading on the body.”

“We’re on it,” says Gus, and Shawn nods, which is a bad idea. His head spins, and then the room spins, and when everything stops spinning, he’s left with a horrible pounding in his head. 

“Mr. Spencer?”

Shawn looks around and realizes that Gus is gone. The Chief is looking at him funny, almost…worried, and he can’t have that right now, so he gives her a little salute and hurries out the door. 

Shawn makes his way to the morgue, but is stopped when he passes the men’s bathroom. 

“Psst! Shawn,” comes Gus’ voice, and the door cracks open. Shawn pushes his way in, and is immediately cornered by Gus. 

“Tell me what’s going on right now,” he demands, and Shawn can tell he’s trying to sound threatening. It’s not working, but he tells Gus anyway. 

“I’m just a little sick,” he explains quietly. 

“And you’re here? Spreading your germs around?” Gus asks, backing away from him and raising an arm to cover his mouth and nose. 

“I’m not contagious, Gus.”

“Do you actually know that, or are you just trying to make me feel better about being possibly infected?”

Shawn shrugs, and Gus sighs, lowering his arm. “Why are you here, Shawn?”

“Come on, man, you know we need the money.”

Gus can’t argue with that. “Fine,” he relents. “But you better have some medicine later and get some sleep and plenty of fluids and -”

“I will,” says Shawn, and he knows he doesn’t sound very convincing. Gus raises his eyebrows at him. 

“Sure you will. At least splash some water on your face, then. You look horrible, and you’re about to be in a room with two detectives.”

Oh. Right. Shawn turns on the faucet and splashes some cold water onto his face. It actually feels kind of nice, and he feels, briefly, a little bit better as he dries himself off with a scratchy brown paper towel. 

“Let’s go see a body,” he says, throwing the towel in the trash. 

The fairly short walk to the morgue might as well take hours. That’s what it feels like to Shawn, anyway. Every step feels like a monumental task and he’s so tired and he would really just like to sleep but he’s currently walking, so that’s not an option. Maybe he shouldn’t have come today. Maybe he should have asked Gus to do this without him. Maybe he should have told the Chief. But maybe she wouldn’t have believed him, or cared. No. No, he needs to be here. He’s just…

Here. Finally, they’ve arrived at the morgue. If Gus is exhausted by their months-long trek, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he’s holding the door open for Shawn and saying something to whoever is on the other side, and Shawn gets the feeling that Gus has been waiting for him. 

He hurries along as quickly as he can (which is painfully slow) and steps into the wonderfully cool air of the morgue. 

“Shawn! Gus! Great to see you,” Woody calls, from where he’s standing beside the body of a young woman lying on his table. Jules and Lassie stand on either side of him, and they both look up as Shawn and Gus walk in. 

“Hi, guys,” Jules greets, and Lassie manages a small nod. 

“Hey, Jules. Lassie,” replies Gus, and Shawn gives them a smile that hopefully doesn’t look as fake and as pained as it feels. 

“Come closer, come closer,” Woody says, and he seems extremely excited, so Shawn and Gus both step in, but before Woody can tell them what it is that’s got him so excited, Shawn, well... 

Shawn’s used to bodies. He’s not squeamish about being around them. He’s not Gus. But as he steps a bit closer to the dead girl on the table and breathes in the smell of death, he’s suddenly trying to stop himself from gagging, but he must not be doing a very good job of it because he hears Lassie say, “I thought Guster was the squeamish one,” and ohh, he feels really bad, and had it always been so hot in here? 

“Are you okay, Shawn?” asks Jules. 

“Uhh -” Shawn starts, then cuts himself off, shutting his mouth firmly. He feels so sick and hot and spinny and bad and he would really like to sit down. 

So he does. Hard. The floor is cool beneath him, and he lies down and imagines sinking right through it. Right through it and ending up somewhere soft and comfortable where nothing is the matter…

There are hands on his face and they are way too warm. He reaches up to push them off and catches a snippet of conversation. 

“He’s burning up.”

“He told me…”

“…didn’t say anything…”

“Of course. Why…”

“Call someone?”

“…necessary?”

“Uh, guys?” Shawn asks, in a moment of complete clarity. He opens his eyes and looks up at the faces of Lassie, Gus, Jules, and Woody. “I’m on the floor.”

“You were the one that just laid right down on it,” says Lassie. 

“Oh. Why?”

“Because you’re sick, Shawn. And you didn’t tell us?”

“I told Gus?”

“Who kept that little revelation to himself.”

“He said he was fine! ‘Just a little sick,’ were the exact words he used.”

“Maybe…I bent the truth,” Shawn admits, letting his eyes slip closed again. He’s so hot…everything feels bad. He wants to fall asleep for about a thousand years. Yeah. A thousand years should be enough for him to wake up feeling somewhat okay again. 

“Don’t you go falling asleep on us, Shawn,” comes Gus’ voice, and then there is a sharp tap on his face. He opens his eyes and scowls. It must not be very effective, though, because Jules giggles, then cuts herself off. 

“Come on, let's get you up,” says Lassie, long-suffering. He grabs one of Shawn’s hands, and Woody takes the other, and suddenly Shawn’s on his feet and more dizzy than he has ever been in his life. 

“Don’t you dare throw up on me, Spencer,” Lassie says, and he sounds so threatening that Shawn has no choice but to comply. 

The group is at least nice enough to give him a few minutes to adjust to being on his feet before they make him move. When they finally do, his arms get draped around Gus and Lassie’s shoulders, and their combined body heat is the most uncomfortable thing in the world, but he knows without a doubt that if they weren’t there he’d collapse, so he doesn’t try to pull away, despite the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s melting. 

The walk out of the morgue feels even longer than the walk to it had felt. Eventually, though, they make it to the Chief’s office. 

She looks up from her work in mild surprise, which quickly turns to concern when her eyes land on Shawn. He tries for an upbeat smile and a “hey, Chief,” that comes out as more of a groan. 

“Spencer’s sick,” explains Lassie. 

“I can see that. Why is he here?”

Shawn twists to his right to look at Gus, who he knows will explain for him. 

“We really need this case,” Gus explains. “Shawn spent all our money fixing the Psych window. Again.”

“Not my fault,” Shawn mutters. 

“You know it was.”

“Gentlemen,” Chief Vick interrupts, “Shawn. You are allowed to take a sick day, you know. This case can go without you for one day.”

“It can?”

“Yes,” Lassie sounds exasperated. “Surprisingly, this department did manage to solve cases before you arrived.”

“Go home, Shawn,” Jules translates. “You can’t work like this, anyway.”

She has a point. Shawn can’t even recall what had happened in the morgue, what they’d talked about, what the body had looked like, which is horribly weird and downright disconcerting because he’d normally never forget those things. But everything is so foggy right now, and he’s so tired, and he wants to sit down and he wants to sleep and -

He’s lost the plot of the conversation again. 

“…can take him home. He better not…”

“…company car, we know.”

“…not contagious…”

“We don’t know that!”

“…not helping, Guster…”

“Shawn?”

“Hmm?” He opens his eyes (he doesn’t remember closing them, which, again. Weird). 

“I’m taking you to your dad’s.”

“Gussss,” Shawn whines, as Gus begins leading him out of the Chief’s office. He doesn’t want to go to his dad’s. 

“You’re going, and that’s that,” Gus says, definitively, and they’re in the car now? Shawn definitely doesn’t remember getting here. “You need someone to watch you, and I have another job to get to, remember?”

Shawn senses that he’s not going to get anywhere arguing right now. “Fine,” he agrees. There are worse things than going to his dad’s place, anyway, if he’s being honest. “I’ll go.”

“You know that’s right.”

aaaaaa thanks so much for reading this!!!!! i hope you liked it, love you all <3

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #sick #fever #psych #shawn spencer #my writing #i say things #this is totally me cherry picking symptoms.... #look i either do Way Too Much research or i make shit up however i please. no in between #anyway now for me to talk! #tonight was opening night it went well ! a little bit of mess ups but i did my job well lmao #and yeah. work was nice (i got a huge tip and like. i almost never get tipped so it was lovely!) and i had this thing for a scholarship #which was also nice....and i am just having a good time rn! very happy :) #hope you liked this fic and thank you for reading it! #oh also there was like. excessive use of italics up in this bitch and i know but this fic just Needed them yknow?

[carnagecardinal]

SOW #23 - Sick @summer-of-whump

Content Warning: Fever, sick whumpee, conditioned to rely on (absent) abuser, brief and mild noncon thoughts/memories.

The world distorts and dismantles in a way that might have been of comfort were it not for the decidedly intolerable way that the fever eats at Bellamy’s mind.

It has sunk to the depths of his bones where it aches. Leaves him cold and shivering atop the bed that has been his for the better part of a year. A bed rarely used because more oft than not he’s asked-

forced, it’s force, he forces m-

-to share Mr. Hansley’s. And where is Sir? It takes Bellamy’s muddled mind what could be a minute or a millennia to recall that Mr. Hansley is out.

But he wants him. Wants to be held in arms that will anchor him, to feel the slide of fingers through his unkept hair or rubbing at the rear of his neck. Wants to beg and earn forgiveness for becoming ill and prove that he can still be good. Can always be good.

What an inconvenience you can be, Bellamy. Take this, it should help. Maybe next time you’ll be fit to bring to the gallery.

“‘m s-sorry,” Bellamy whispers to a voice hours gone.

The blanket is cool where he clutches it, and he draws a section of it up against his chest in the way he wishes Mr. Hansley would do with him.

Time slips. Passes. Or perhaps it remains trapped in the stuttering of a malfunctioning minute hand. The same moment ticking again and again and forever going nowhere.

A weight settles at the edge of the mattress, and only when he opens his eyes does he realize he has been asleep. Sir’s name is on his tongue, but doesn’t drop. Instead he swallows it, wincing as it razors down his throat. It’s not Mr. Hansley sitting at the edge of his bed.

Bellamy’s brow furrows as he tries to place the man, but his thoughts go to pieces as a warm hand alights on the side of his face. The soft weight of it evokes a whine from him, and he thinks the man issues a quiet, sssh.

“I’ll get you out of here, Bellamy.” The voice is muffled, like noise diving into water. “Not now, the housekeepers-“

Mr. Hansley’s housekeepers are home. Part of Bellamy’s mind leans toward the wish that he was well enough to assist them. The rest stares at the man, wondering how he’s gotten passed them, before blearily recalling that he has seen him before.

Working for or with Mr. Hansley, spending hours holed up together, sharing a workspace in the downstairs study. The one with the philodendrons Bellamy likes to water and whisper to when there’s no one else to hear.

Justin? Jason? Has he ever spared Bellamy more than a glance, a smile?

Only when the hand shifts to card fingers through his hair does Bellamy realize he’s missed what Mr. J has been saying to him.

“Sorry, I’m… I’m sorry.” It comes weakly, and Bellamy steels himself to try for something louder, more convincing, more real, because he’s good, he’s always good, he-

“It’s alright, Bellamy. You’re alright.” The petting is rhythmic, soothing. “I’ll get you out of here, okay? I don’t know exactly when, but soon. I’ll get you out, I promise.”

Promises are empty noise.

Where did he hear that? Is the headache that blooms behind his eyes a product of false remembrance, or being ill?

When Bellamy blinks he has to struggle to reopen his eyes, and when he manages the man is gone. A dream, then? A hallucination?

It hurts to focus his thoughts so he stops. Closes his eyes. Lets his mind drift where it will, lets it chew over its desire for his Sir to return.

The world is distorted. Sleep and reality blend. There’s a phantom sensation of warmth against his skin, of fingers in his hair. At the edge of the bed a small depression remains where a body might have briefly sat.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #bbu #sick whumpee #box boy #fever #box boy universe #pet whump #noncon thoughts/memories tw #conditioned to rely on abuser tw #Bellamy #Mr. Hansley

[caspia-writes]

Summer of Whump #23 — Sick

Summary: A father receives bad news in the hospital regarding his infant son.

Content warning: Implied death

A few gentle prods to the shoulder woke Josef from his slumber. He hoped it would be Elke. It wasn’t. Instead he opened his eyes to see one of the doctors standing in front of his chair, staring down at his clipboard instead of meeting Josef’s eyes. His next hope was that it would be good news. That Klaus would be fine, and—

“There’s nothing we can do.”

Individually, each of those words made sense. As a whole, Josef couldn’t process them. “What?”

“There’s nothing we can do,” the doctor repeated. “Klaus is going to die. I’m sorry.”

Now the words registered, and Josef’s chest went hollow. This wasn’t heartbreak. This was something beyond that. If the doctor was saying what Josef thought he was saying, what he had to be saying, that meant Klaus was going to die. Klaus was going to die, and no one could do anything to help him now.

“There has to be something!” Josef grabbed the doctor’s wrists. Already he knew it wouldn’t work, but he couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth. “Please, I’ll donate however much you want; I don’t care what it costs! Just save my son—please!”

Once again, the same useless words. “There’s nothing we can do.”

Josef wanted to punch the doctor. Punch those words back down his throat. Punch God. Punch whoever had gotten his child sick with this. Rip the disease out of his son’s tiny frame and beat it bloody. Dare it to take him instead. Beg it to take him instead. Something. Anything to change this.

But he couldn’t. No one could. There was nothing anyone could do.

With tears in his eyes, Josef looked down at his son. Someone else might have thought he was sleeping. Someone who couldn’t feel the hellish heat radiating off his small body, who hadn’t seen the rashes covering his skin. He’d thought Klaus was only sleeping when he’d nodded off.

For him, that was the worst part. It had all started as fussing and not wanting to eat. A little colic that wouldn’t go away.

And now Klaus was going to die.

“You should go.” For the first time since he came in, the doctor looked up from his clipboard and met Josef’s eyes. “Your wife will want to say her goodbyes too. And your son would be more comfortable at home.”

Josef nodded. Elke would never forgive herself if Klaus died before she could tell him goodbye. And Josef would never forgive himself if he was the reason she never got to say it. As much as he almost wanted to leave Klaus here, hope that somehow the doctor was wrong and there was something someone could do, he knew better. Even if Josef didn’t want to, he knew better. And if Klaus had to die, he agreed that it should be in the comfort his mother’s arms in the only home he’d ever known, not some strange hospital surrounded by strange people on a strange cot.

So he pulled the baby blanket it out of his pocket and bundled Klaus’s burning body against the coming wintry blasts. Klaus, who any other day would have woken up and begun screaming the hospital down, didn’t so much as twitch. The only thing that had Josef convinced his child was still alive at all was the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

Pulling his lips into a tight smile, Josef held Klaus tight and began walking towards the doors. It was time to go home. For both of them.

#writing #writeblr #summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #sick #tw implied death #tw child death

[fletcherwilbury]

Summer of Whump Day 23: Sick

Warning: This story contains depictions of illness and past injury.

#summer of whump #summerofwhump23 #sick #the beatles fanfiction #the beatles #george harrison #derek taylor #paul mccartney #past injury tw #illness tw

[blogger360ncislarules]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Pretty Little Liars Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Hanna Marin/Caleb Rivers Characters: Hanna Marin, Caleb Rivers Additional Tags: Summer of Whump 2021 Summary:

Hanna gets some unexpected news that leaves her questioning everything.

For @summer-of-whump

#my work #summerofwhump #summerofwhump23 #pretty little liars #pll