If My Heart Has To Be Stabbed So Does Yours

I love the way you write soft whump!! Would you consider writing a sickfic in which A is very sick (fever, weakness, the works) but keeps trying to get up and do things so B and C have to band together to keep them in bed and take care of them?

thank you so much!! and thanks for being patient - this was a perfect prompt for @sicktember!

sicktember day 30: get back in bed!

“Finally got them back in bed,” C says, walking back into the living room where B is watching TV. 

“What was it this time?” B asks, eyes not leaving the screen.

C huffs a laugh. “They were trying to reorganize the bookshelves.” 

B rolls their eyes. “Why? You wouldn’t catch them dead doing that if they were healthy.” 

C shrugs. “I guess fevers make them restless? In any case, they should be–”

A crash interrupts their train of thought, and both B and C look up the stairs, groaning in unison as they head back to A’s bedroom. 

But A’s not in the rumpled covers, nor are they in B or C’s beds (of which they tried to change the sheets twice already today). No, this time they’ve crawled to the bathroom, where they’re carefully lining up all the bath products from the cupboard along the floor next to the shower. A blanket’s tangled around their shoulders, and their hair is sleep-mussed and wild.

“A, honey,” B kneels down next to them, laying a hand on their shoulder. “You shouldn’t be up.” 

“I have to return these, B. There’s too many.” Their voice is scratchy, frantic, and their glassy eyes are wide. “But I can’t find the shampoo.” They’re clutching a bottle of body wash to their chest, lower lip trembling like they’re ready to burst into tears. 

B presses their other hand against A’s forehead, then looks up at C with worried eyes. “Their fever’s worse.” 

C nods, kneeling down on the floor next to the other two. “A? We can take care of this later. Right now, you need to get back in bed.” They gently pry the bottle out of A’s trembling hand and hoist them up, B with their arm around their other side. A is dead weight between them, and C catches B’s eyes as they stumble down the hallway.

“Desperate measures?” C asks.

“Desperate measures,” B replies.

When they get to the bedroom, C pours another dose of flu medicine into the small plastic cup, and B helps prop A up on the bed so they can choke the cherry-flavored liquid down. Afterwards, they ease A back under the covers, then C and B take their places on both sides of them.

“What….what’re you doing?” A’s still out of it, but they’re lucid enough to know that C and B are two unusual additions to their bed.

“Making sure you stay,” B says, gently tapping A’s nose. “Close your eyes and let the medicine do the work. We’ll be right next to you.”

A looks like they want to argue, but their eyes are already slipping shut, and the protests die on their lips. In minutes, they’re unconscious, as evidenced by their short, shallow breaths. B leans up on one elbow, casting a nervous glance at C.

“They’re really sick, aren’t they?” B’s voice is hardly more than a whisper.

C nods. “Yeah, they are.” They gaze down at A’s sleeping form, raising a hand to brush a lock of their hair behind their ear. “But they’ll be okay. We’ll make sure of it.”

Still, neither of them leave A’s side for the rest of the night.

I still thrive off these three regularly.

Oque fiz hj

😊

Uma Baleia Rosa

😍

Sleeping Beauty

Yuuri shouldn’t be wearing his glasses while he sleeps, but Victor doesn’t want to wake him. So naturally, the only option is for Victor to remove them without disturbing the sleeping skater.

Fluff without plot, based on this prompt by @allergenius

1200~ words

Continuar lendo

"you never drink tea" for the sickfic prompts? :D

Takes place sometime after ep 12 in Russia

1200~ words

～～～

From across the rink, Yuuri scrutinizes the item held in Victor’s hands. The logo of Victor’s favourite cafe is displayed on the front of it, the familiar design revealing it is one of the special filtered tea mugs Victor loves to gush about. While the sight of him clutching a travel mug at morning practice is not an unusual one, seeing it now has Yuuri slowing to a stop on the ice as he gets a better look at his coach.

It’s not that Victor doesn’t like tea. It’s far from an odd occurrence for Victor to bring a thermos with him to stay energized through practice and warm against the chill of the cold winter weather.

Only now there is no chill, as it’s the middle of spring.

“Tired already, Yuuri?” Victor calls, his wide smile conveying the quip about Yuuri’s stamina that he doesn’t voice.

Yuuri narrows his eyes at Victor, paying his comment no mind. “You never drink tea,” he says accusingly.

For a moment, Victor looks like he’s taken off guardーalmost as if he were caught in the actーbut he quickly composes himself. “I do sometimes,” Victor replies simply, taking a sip rather nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. “When it’s freezing outsideーwhich it’s not right now. Or when you need the caffeine, or when your throat is really bothering you because you’re sick.”

That causes Victor to flinch, and Yuuri knows he’s right.

“It’s nothing,” Victor dismisses with a wave of his hand and a smile practiced to perfection. “I’m just a bit tired. I didn’t sleep too well last night is all.”

Yuuri is well aware of the fact. Victor had been doing nothing but tossing and turning. Yuuri is surprised to hear he got any kind of rest at all.

It’s obvious to Yuuri that Victor is sick. Or at the very least coming down with something. While it’s likely not obvious to anyone else, the signs are all there. It’s not even just the mug of tea, it’s the fact that Victor tried to hide it from Yuuri. He had prepared it and packed it in secrecy, much like he had hid his illness the first time he had been sick in their relationship. Yuuri would have thought that by now that Victor wouldn’t try to do these things on his own.

Yuuri is tempted to advise they cut their practice short, that they go home and Victor rests, but he knows the idea will be shot down the moment he suggests it. Plus, as much as Yuuri hates to admit it, Victor’s condition isn’t bad enough to warrant sentencing him to bedrest. At least not yet.

So instead he settles for letting Victor have his way for a while, and pretends he doesn’t notice when Victor turns away to cough into the crook of his elbow.

Yuuri runs through his routine again and again, until the movements become more natural than breathing. Victor gives his compliments and critiques, each one sounding more tired and strained than the last. Yuuri still doesn’t voice his concern, knowing even now it will fall on deaf ears.

He loses himself in his skating, until the ice feels like it’s moving beneath his feet, as if it were the one dancing for him, rather than the other way around. The sharp slice of his blades echoes in his ears, the crisp and cool rink air fills his lungs with each heavy breath. He pushes himself harder, thoroughly enjoying every minute of it, until thoughts about Victor’s steadily deteriorating condition are all but forgotten.

He comes to a finish in the centre of the ice, breathing hard, feeling confident about a performance well done. He had landed every single jump, even the quad flip, though the landing was a bit shaky which he doubts Victor will let slide. His spins were tight, his step sequence was remarkable as always. Though Victor insists there is always room for improvement, and Yuuri is ready to hear where he should start.

But surprisingly there is no such input from Victor. Only silence. Puzzled, Yuuri turns and looks for his coach and finds him plucking a number of tissues from the plush poodle and blowing his nose into them.

A pang of annoyance surges through Yuuri. Victor just missed a near-perfect run through of his routine. (Even perfect run throughs are near-perfect to Victor.) But then, as Victor emerges from behind the cover of the kleenex, Yuuri feels all of his annoyance melt away into pity.

Even from a distance, Victor’s nose is noticeably red. His eyes (which have yet to notice Yuuri staring) lack the usual sparkle, and there are dark smudges underneath them. Victor sniffles, stuffing the used tissue into the pocket of his jacket, then wraps it more tightly around himself as he visibly shivers. His overall form broadcasts his exhaustion, the tired sigh he releases further proving that point.

“Victor?” Yuuri calls, causing Victor to snap his head up.

His cheeks are flushed, which could easily be from embarrassment at the realization he had missed Yuuri’s routine. Though judging by everything else Yuuri has witnessed, he’s willing to bet Victor is running a fever.

Victor’s posture changes in an instant. He straightens up and takes his hands out of his pockets, forcing a smile that Yuuri sees right through.

“Ah, sorry Yuuri. I got a bit distracted for a minute there,” Victor says with a lighthearted laugh, as if that will distract Yuuri from how hoarse his voice sounds. “I’m sure your routine was lovely! Though I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing you do it again. I’m confident you have the stamina.”

Yuuri has had enough. He makes his way over to the boards where Victor is. “Maybe I do, but you don’t.”

Victor blinks, still acting innocent. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re obviously sick,” Yuuri points out.

“It's… just a little cold,” Victor relinquishes, his voice quiet and sheepish. “I can still coach you. I’m fine,” Victor insists, or at least he tries to; his breath catches and he sharply turns away to sneeze before he can finish his sentence.

As Victor groans and reaches for a tissue to blow his nose yet again, Yuuri picks up the mug of tea and hands it to him. Victor accepts without a word, takes a sip, then heaves a sigh as he sets the drink down.

Yuuri takes Victor’s hand in his and runs his finger over where the ring is. It’s covered by his glove, and that is another dead giveaway to Yuuri that Victor is well and truly sick: he never passes up an opportunity to flash their engagement rings. He must really be chilled.

“Come on. Let’s get you home,” Yuuri says.

He expects Victor to argue, to insist he’s okay to keep coaching, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary. But Victor must either be feeling that bad, or perhaps he can’t find it in himself to resist Yuuri’s sweet charms, because he just smiles, adoration written all over his features, and lets Yuuri lead him by the hand to the benches.

～～～

Prompts can be found here!

We don't talk about Wizeman

YES

i love those lingering symptoms after a cold. like, the person’s still congested and it’s just enough to numb out their consonants and make it obvious they’ve been sick. they might still be a little washed-out looking and tired, dozing off in the middle of the day; they don’t have their energy back yet. more frequent breaks and the occasional cough, not having much of an appetite because food still doesn’t taste quite right - just little things that tell people that they’re not at 100%. 

Yooooo. Here’s the third and final part (Part one can be found here, Part two can be found here).  Honestly there was less Shiro whump in this than I had planned, oops.  Sorry.  Please let me know what you think, and also please send me prompts or asks or anything, I really wanna make more friends on here XD

Shiro was…well, if we were being honest, Shiro wasn’t doing too hot. Lance was asleep next to him, and had moved so he was lying with his head in Shiro’s lap, and his legs in Keith’s.

Keith was on his phone, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrated on whatever game he was playing.  

Shiro closed his eyes, grimacing at the throbbing in his head.

“Hey, Keith?” “Hmm?” Keith mumbled absentmindedly.   “Lance is out for the night, I think I’m going to go back to my place…sleep in an actual bed.” Keith looked at him, panic stricken.  “You’re leaving? Why-why-why are you leaving? you don’t need to go anywhere!” Shiro sighed.  “Keith, I need to sleep in an actual bed.  You’ll be okay on your own.” “What if he wakes up?” He was barely concealing his annoyance now. “Keith.” “Okay, okay. Um…what do I do with him?” Shiro sighed again. “He can have more medicine at eleven.  If he wakes up again, give him some then.  If he stays asleep, leave him be.” “Can I call you if I need something.” “You won’t.” “But if I do?” Shiro rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Fine.  Yes.  But I think you’ll be fine.”

Shiro slipped out from under Lance.  Luckily he didn’t even stir, and just stretched out even more.  The moment Shiro was standing up, black spots clouded his vision, and he nearly pitched forward. He caught himself at the last minute on the back of the couch.  

Keith narrowed his eyes.  “Stand much?” Shiro shot him a flat look. “Very funny.  Alright, I’m gonna go.  Let Lance know I’ll be here around nine.” He shot him a thumbs up.  “Will do.”

Shiro made it back to his apartment a lot slower than usual.  It was only a five minute drive, but because he was so sleepy and felt so out of it, it took him fifteen.  He didn’t really remember the drive, but he didn’t crash so it must have been somewhat okay.

Once he was inside, he nearly collapsed on the couch that was too short for his six foot frame to stretch out on.  He didn’t care, though.  He was far too tired to make it another six feet to his bedroom.  

Despite his exhaustion, Shiro didn’t sleep that night. Then again, he never slept when he felt shitty, and man, did he feel shitty.

His entire body was aching, and he was sure the achiness was exacerbated by the couch he had to curl up on to fit.  It felt smaller, somehow.  By that point, he was too tired, and had no energy to get up, so he resigned to staying on the tiny uncomfortable couch.  He tossed and turned the entire night, and eventually tumbled to the floor, where he landed with a dull thud, and low groan of pain. His head was throbbing much worse now, and Shiro wasn’t sure if he had smacked it on the ground when he landed, or if the act of falling just angered it.  

Lance woke up the next morning, and rubbed a hand over his face.  He felt better for the first time in days, but he was nowhere near one hundred percent.  None of his symptoms were gone completely, except maybe the fever (which got rid of his achiness).  They were all just less severe.

“Oh good.  You’re awake.” Lance inhaled sharply and rubbed his eyes as he looked at Keith, who was leaning back against the wall next to the doorway to the kitchen.  “What time is it?” He mumbled sleepily. “Just past eight. Shiro said he’d be here around nine.” “Shiro?” He mumbled, his brain muddled from sleep.  “What? I thought he was here.” “He wanted to go sleep in his bed or something, I don’t know.” Keith shrugged.  “How are you feeling?” “Uh…better, I guess.” He rasped. “I finally don’t feel like death.” Keith cracked a smile. “Well that’s an improvement. You should go get ready. Shiro should be here soon.”

And he was, thirty minutes later.  Lance had thrown on a pair of sweats, a ratty t-shirt, and a zip up hoodie, not caring how shitty he looked, because he still felt shitty and couldn’t bring himself to care.  He was lying down on the couch when there was a weak rapping on the door.  Lance pushed himself off the couch, trudged to the door and threw it open.

“Hey Shir-oh.  Dude, are you alright? You look like hell.” “Yeah, just tired.” Shiro muttered, shooting him a weak, tired smile. “Just tired?” Lance said, quirking a brow at him.   “I had a hard time sleeping last night.” Shiro shrugged.  “Anyways, are you ready to go get this done?” Lance nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes at Shiro.  “Yeah, but if you’re not feeling great, maybe you should take a day and just rest.” Shiro rolled his eyes (which felt so heavy and hurt so bad). “Let’s just go.” “But are you-” “-I’m fine, Lance.  How are you feeling?” “Better.”

*

By lunch time, Shiro was definitely sick. He locked himself in his classroom, using the ‘I really want to get this all cleaned and organized without distractions’ excuse.  In reality, he was huddled underneath his desk, barely conscious and shivering.  He was freezing, but his skin was slick with sweat, and his shirt was sticking to him uncomfortably. He definitely had a fever now, and he told himself he just needed a fifteen minute cat nap, and he’d be okay after waking up.

The congestion finally hit him thirty minutes after he got to his classroom, as did the awful sore throat that felt like he had been gargling knives anytime he spoke or swallowed.  

“Hey, Shiro?” Lance rasped, knocking on the door.  Shiro shot up into a sitting position, and then groaned in pain as the throbbing in his temples increased. “Hold on.” He croaked weakly.  He pushed himself to his feet, and walked on legs that felt like jello to his door. He opened it, coughing into his fist.   “You ARE sick!” Lance cried, pointing an accusing finger at the larger man. “I’m f-” He turned from Lance, pinching his nose as he stifled what must have been ten sneezes in quick succession.  The fit left him panting, and his eyes watering as he coughed lightly.   “You are not. Shiro, come on.” Shiro sniffled, turning around and walking to the tissue box on his desk.  “Landce, I’mb finde…allergies, or sombething.” “You don’t have allergies, you idiot.  Come on, let’s leave.” Shiro blew his nose, and then wiped under it with the tissue and tossed it in the trash can.  “I don’t need to.” “You’ve been here for almost four hours, and your classroom isn’t any closer to being clean than it was when we got here.” Shiro sniffled weakly in response.  “Go back to your classroom.” “No.  I’m not going back to my classroom.” Lance spat, throwing his hands in the air.  “Will you just QUIT the tough guy act? I know how shitty you feel, I’ve been there for the last five days. Now stop it, let’s go home, you need to sleep. We can come back tomorrow if you’re really that desperate to get your classroom clean.

Either Lance was a hell of a lot more persuasive than he thought he was, or he really didn’t feel well.  Either way, Shiro nodded in agreement, visibly deflating as his eyelids drooped and he swayed on his feet.  

Lance wrapped an arm around his waist.  “Alright, big guy.  Please don’t pass out on me, just get to the car.”

Shiro was a solid wall of muscle, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest.  Lance, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.  He was much shorter - a good five inches - and was small and wiry.  If Shiro collapsed, he would definitely take Lance down with him and Lance would probably die.  

Lance managed to get him to the car.  He’s not sure how, because Shiro was very unsteady, and very out of it (but he did it).

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, watching as Shiro clambered into the front passengers seat of the car.  

“Keith, I need a favor.” “Yes?” Keith asked, sounding distracted. He was most likely writing the manuscript of his latest novel.  Usually Lance didn’t bother him too much while he was working, but he needed him. “Dude, I need your focus.” “What is it?” “You need to come get us.” “What? Why?” “Shiro’s sick.  He’s really out of it and in no condition to be driving us home.” “Can’t you drive?” “I’m exhausted.  I feel like shit, man.  Can you please just come?” Keith sighed.  “Yeah, okay.”

*

Lance was better by the next morning. He still had some lingering effects from the flu, but he was better. Shiro, on the other hand, was worse, and had what seemed to be the flu/head cold from hell. It was all in his sinuses and head.  The coughing had gone away completely, and instead, there was an annoying, almost constant buzzing feeling in his sinuses.  He was sneezing what felt like every fifteen seconds.  He had already gone through a box and a half of tissues, and was laid up on the sofa, despite how (weakly) adamant he was that he was FINE.

“His fever’s pushing one hundred and three.” Lance groaned, staring at the thermometer.  “Go get some washcloths. We’ve gotta get it down.” “Yeah, okay.  You know, I never signed on as caretaker for you guys.” Lance rolled his eyes.  “Okay, well you didn’t do shit because you don’t know how to take care of someone.  Stop complaining and go get the washcloths.” “Yeah, whatever.”

Shiro sniffled, going into another weak sneezing fit.  His sneezes sounded exhausted at this point, and like they were clawing their way out of his throat. He sounded miserable, and Lance felt awful for getting him sick.  

“Shiro?” Lance asked anxiously.   He sniffled.  “What?” “Sorry you’re sick.” Shiro just shrugged listlessly, his eyelids drooping.  They snapped open when he sneezed again, and he moaned in discomfort and annoyance.  “I’mb really sick of sndeezindg.” “I think we have some decongestants.  Let me go check on that.” Shiro nodded, closing his eyes again.  

Once the damp washcloths were on his forehead, and the medicine had kicked in, he was finally drowsy enough to fall asleep.  Which he did, and it was the most restful sleep he’d had in the past week.