In aller Freundschaft- Starke Söhne (329)

feverishfatale:

An exaughsted sickie being examined by the doctor for the chest cold that’s absolutely killing them lately. The doctor listens to their symptoms, nodding at their complaints before conducting an exam. They start by holding the stethoscope to the sickies chest and ask them to draw in the deep breath slowly. The sickie inhales, the congestion crackling through their sinus down to their chest, and then exhales with a wheeze. Again, the doctor asks. The poor sickies lungs wheeze again with the force of trying to draw in air through the gunk that’s clogging the passages. Again, the doctor says. They inhale shakily, the congestion apparent in the thickness of it and the wet, damp sound to their breathing. At the doctors command they attempt to exhale but their breath catches and they break into a fit of raspy coughs. They wheeze through the fit as the doctor sits back, breathing in wet pants that do nothing to move the congestion settling into their lungs. The doctor leaves them with a diagnosis of a nasty chest cold and warns them that without rest it will likely turn into something more serious.

whumpster-dumpster:

Gotta love a whumpee’s voice that is crackly, creaky and broken from coughing

feverflushed:

Heyoooo, I haven’t written anything in a hot minute! Here, have some actual husbands Sh/eith! As usual, a big thank you to my dear @vcepsis for beta reading this!

————————

Keith sighed, biting his bottom lip nervously.

Shiro was asleep on the couch next to him, snoring loudly. He normally didn’t snore that bad, but that monster of a cold had completely messed up his breathing.

Keith stared at his husband pensively, deep lines of worry running across his brow. 

Rarely he had seen Shiro so miserable.

Sure, Keith had stayed by his side during a couple of flu bugs that had left his beloved husband completely wiped, but this… this sounded miserable, and Keith was sick and tired of it. 

They were three weeks in that awful cold, and it still didn’t show any signs of clearing up. 

It had begun as an innocent sore throat and runny nose, that had quickly deteriorated and become an awful head cold, leaving Shiro a sneezy, sniffling mess. He was constantly battling the pain in his sinuses and the annoying buzzing in his ears.

Then, after a few days, Shiro’s cold had decided to take a trip and settle into his chest too, leaving the poor man to deal with an alarming range of rattling and wheezing sounds coming straight from his lungs.

“You sound like a broken tea kettle. I think you should go to the doctor before you drown in your own bodily fluids” Keith had tried to suggest, but Shiro had scoffed, action that had left him in the throes of a vicious, rough coughing fit.

“I’m okay, Keith. Just a cold and a bit of a cough. It’ll go away on its own eventually.”

Keith had tried to argue, but had ended up giving up.

How he wished he had insisted. 

They had decided to watch a movie after dinner, a relaxing, domestic evening, but Shiro had fallen asleep during the first half of the movie.

The man looked absolutely spent, and Keith had been happy to see his beloved finally getting some rest. That peace was destined to be short lived.

Shiro was mouth breathing, he did that on good days, due to the massive scar across his nose, but when colds ravaged his sinuses, he was loud. So loud that Keith could barely hear the dialogues of the movie. He gently poked Shiro’s side with a finger, and the man jumped awake, startled.

The air caught into his throat, sending him coughing. Deep, painful rattles shaking his whole being, leaving him breathless. 

“That… doesn’t sound good” Keith observed worriedly, as he rubbed Shiro’s back through the fit. 

Eventually, Shiro’s lungs stopped spasming, and Keith managed to take a glimpse of his husband, before the latter buried his face into a handful of tissues. He looked absolutely wrecked.

“Do you want me to make you some tea, Kashi?” he offered, trying to help. 

Shiro tried to reply, but he only managed a small, hoarse rasp of approval. Man, all the coughing had destroyed his throat. 

Keith went to the kitchen, setting the water to boil. He was busy choosing the most fitting tea for Shiro, when a big, beefy blanket wrap trudged through the kitchen, half collapsing on a chair.

Keith clicked his tongue.

“It was not necessary for you to come with me, you know.”

The blanket burrito stayed silent for a few seconds, then sniffled wetly, and a congested voice came from the depths of it.

“…Felt lonely.”

The poor man sounded so sad and miserable, that Keith couldn’t help but feel a pang of deep affection for Shiro. He was just so sweet. He was miserable with that cold, but even then, he was… meek. He had been feeling horrible for weeks, and it showed, but Shiro never complained, never felt sorry for himself. He had just accepted it, trying to make the healing process the least annoying possible, for both of them. 

He didn’t want Keith to worry.

And Keith knew it. But Keith also knew that Shiro was feeling awful. They had been married for two years, he always knew when his husband was unwell, no matter how hard Shiro tried to conceal it. His actions spoke for him.

Keith kissed the top of Shiro’s head fondly. Or at least, the point of the blanket burrito where he estimated Shiro’s head was.

“Go lie down, Kashi. I’ll be there in a minute. Why don’t you choose another movie in the meantime? Something fun and easier to watch than this one.”

The blanket burrito nodded, and dragged itself back to the couch, sniffling miserably. A couple of loud sneezes reverberated through the apartment, as Keith brewed the tea, the lovely scent of mint and thyme filling the air. 

When Keith brought back two mugs of tea, Shiro had already made his choice. 

Keith stared at the tv, reluctantly.

“Coco? But you know that the ending makes you cry.”

“Maybe crying will help me unclog my sinuses for a while. Worth trying.” 

Keith chuckled, and settled down on the couch, but then stood up again.

“Ah, we almost forgot. We have to try the new nebulizer treatment they gave you at the doctor’s office today. Hopefully, this one works.”

Shiro groaned.

“Can I do that tomorrow? I’m so tired…”

“No, starlight. You do it now. The sooner you start with it, the sooner you’ll get better. And I want you to get better.”

Shiro looked at Keith from his nest of blankets, defeated.

“Okay. Just because you asked me so nicely. And because you called me… heh…” Shiro let out a throat scraping sneeze, immediately hiding his face beneath a handful of blankets. Ugh, gross. He reached out to the tissue box on the coffee table, swiftly grasping a wad of tissues, and promptly blowing his nose. 

Gosh. The more he blew, the more he wanted to blow, even if the skin of his nose was absolutely ruined at this point. 

While Shiro busied himself with the tissues, Keith set up the nebulizer. 

Shiro gave him puppy eyes, but Keith didn’t fall for it.

“Don’t give me those eyes. You know the drill.”

Shiro coughed deeply into his fist, resigned, before picking up the mouthpiece of the nebulizer and cuddling against Keith’s side, pressing the play button on the remote and switching on the nebulizer at the same time. 

“Sometimes, I think I’m cursed. ‘Cause of something that happened before I was even born. See, a long time ago, there was this family. The Papa, he was a musician…”

Shiro relaxed, focusing his full attention on the movie, while the medication worked its magic. 

Sometimes, the mist would tickle his lungs just right, sending him into a coughing fit and prompting Keith to gently pound on his back or rub circles on his chest, congestion shifting noticeably under Keith’s hand. He couldn’t help but think that his husband sounded absolutely terrible, and that maybe that was a bit more than just a cold. After several minutes of coughing and sniffling, Shiro’s lungs stopped spasming, the medication finally starting to soothe the itch in his chest and throat.

Slowly, Shiro started to drift off, eyelids heavy with sleep. The hand holding up the mouthpiece started to go limp, dispersing the mist in the air.

Keith chuckled, holding the small plastic tube in place himself.

He focused on the movie, while his fingers slowly brushed through Shiro’s hair. 

Keith hadn’t even realized that he had fallen asleep, but when he woke up again, there was static on the tv screen, and Shiro was still sleeping, still leaning against him.

He smiled, and kissed the top of Shiro’s head. He seemed to be breathing easier. 

Keith turned off the tv, and slowly shifted to better accommodate Shiro’s body. He was heavy, but it was a pleasant weight, warm and comforting. 

Keith slipped into a comfortable sleep, hugging the man he loved.

He had never felt so safe in his entire life.

My Cup Runneth Over

d&d oc whump commissioned by [anon]

content warnings: blood drinking, terminal illness, very brief emeto mention

—

Rolith never imagined he would step foot inside a vampire’s home for any reason other than to slaughter the fiend, yet here he is, knocking on the front door of Lord Serador’s estate with no malicious intentions to be found. He’s been tasked to perform a wellness check on the behalf of Queen Juliet, the matriarch of Willowfen, or the independent human settlement they both call home. As the town’s military leader, he receives his orders directly from her and spends a sizable portion of his time advising the crown. They’ve built up a healthy working relationship over the years, and she trusts him indubitably. She told him she was worried about Serador because he returned the Empyreal Wand (the Queen’s family heirloom, which she gave him in return for his help in solving their werewolf problem). Considering how badly the vampire initially wanted the wand, her highness saw his generosity as cause for concern.

Brows furrowing, Rolith glances down at the wand. Although Serador seems to be somewhat less of a prick than most vampiric nobility, Rolith still can’t imagine him helping them for free. There must be another reason why he returned it.

As time passes and his knock remains unanswered, Rolith begins to suspect the Queen’s worry was well-founded. Unwilling to wait any longer, he reaches for the door knob and, surprisingly, finds it unlocked. Perhaps Serador doesn’t consider the animal inhabitants of his domain to be any threat to his safety. Still, in Rolith’s experience, an unlocked front door is never a good sign. He might be young for a military leader (all of the older commanders perished in the fight to free Willowfen from vampiric rule, leaving the next generation to carry the torch alone) but he’s seen enough in his lifetime to know a bad situation when he sees one.

Without hesitation or any regard for proper manners, he slips inside. As soon as the door closes behind him, he’s consumed by darkness. All of the windows are covered, and none of the candles are lit, so he unsheathes his sword and casts Daylight upon the blade. The spell causes the metal to glow and illuminate the foyer. White brightness crawls into every nook and cranny, and he takes a look around.

He isn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

The manor is archaically well-decorated, of course, but it’s in bad shape. Nothing has been cleaned in ages: the painted portraits are peeling, the wood paneling is dusty, and the ceiling is covered in cobwebs. A shudder of unease rolls down his spine, and he heads toward the stairs, hoping to find Serador quickly so he can get out of this place.

“Hello?” he calls, marching up the creaking steps, “Serador? You here?”

He reaches the second floor and starts down the hallway toward the East Wing. All of the heavy, velvet curtains are drawn closed, but specks of light peek through moth holes. The state of Serador’s house reaffirms his suspicions about his well being. During the period of their alliance thus far, Rolith has noticed that there’s something not quite right with him. The vampire seems to have little to no regard for his health, the most prominent example being the time when he overexerted himself in battle to the extent that he was vomiting blood for hours after. At the time, Rolith tried to help, but he was brushed off. They’ve never discussed the matter. Even when he’s not visibly ill, Serador always has dark circles underneath his red eyes, and his pale skin is more gaunt than even a vampire’s complexion should be. There’s definitely something wrong with him. If only Rolith knew what the problem was.

Turning a corner, he spots an open door at the end of the hall. He heads straight for it, entering the room without preamble, anxious about what he might find. 

“Mother of God,” a familiar voice groans. It’s Serador. He’s lying in his bed, his eyes slammed shut against the white glow. “Put that out.”

Rolith waves his hand to disperse the magic, and the vampire sighs in relief at the ensuing darkness. His comfort is short-lived, however, because the paladin immediately strides over to the nearest window and throws open the curtains, letting the evening sunlight in. Serador hisses. Rolith ignores him.

“Your door was unlocked,” he says, turning around to face him. Serador’s bed is ornate and massive, a large canopy frame that’s almost as tall as the ceiling. Propped up by a mountain of pillows and tucked under the covers, the vampire looks none too pleased about being seen in such a vulnerable state. His red eyes immediately hone in on the Emperyal Wand.

“What are you doing with that?” he asks brusquely. “I returned it to your Queen.”

Rolith sheaths his sword and places the wand down on the nearest surface. “But you didn’t tell her why.”

The vampire shifts. “I no longer desire it.”

Approaching his bedside, Rolith takes a moment to more thoroughly examine his appearance. Gone is the demeanor of a haughty immortal. The creature before him looks sickly, and the sheets surrounding him are covered in blood. His chin is stained red.

“What’s wrong with you?” Rolith demands. The vampire doesn’t answer, averting his eyes. He makes a face and then coughs into his elbow. His throat makes a wet, gurgling sound, and his shirt sleeve is soaked in crimson.

Alarm bells go off in the paladin’s head. The carnage isn’t from feeding. It’s not the blood of his prey. It’s his own.

“Serador.”

“What?” he gasps, breathless and clearly annoyed.

“You know what. You look like you’re dying. You need a cleric or, or something,” Rolith says, running a hand through his blonde hair and wracking his mind for a way to help. He doesn’t know much about vampire physiology. Information regarding their weaknesses is kept secret by the vampiric nobility. Before this very moment, he thought they couldn’t even get sick in the first place.

Intent on rushing out of the manor and grabbing the first healer he comes across, he moves toward the door to leave, but Serador clears his throat and makes him pause.

“A cleric won’t help,” he says.

Crossing his arms, Rolith glares at him. “So you know what’s wrong with you?”

Serador sighs deeply. He looks miserable. His cheeks are hollow, and his limbs sag with every movement as if his very bones are weighing him down. Rolith hates seeing him like this.

“I was cursed a long time ago, in a blood feud. The curse manifests as an illness of sorts, weakening me until eventually…” Rolith shrugs, “Well, I assume it’ll kill me someday. It’s been a decades now.”

The vampire’s casual tone makes it difficult for Rolith to immediately comprehend the meaning of his words, but the more he thinks about it, the more everything begins to make sense. He recalls every time he’s witnessed Serador utterly drained after battle, and the pieces of the puzzle slot together in his mind. “You’re cursed?”

Serador gives him a tired look. “Yes. I thought perhaps the wand could cure me, but I doubt it.”

Rolith raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t even try?” At this, he marches over to the table and grabs the wand, determination pumping through his veins. “You’re dying. You should at least try.”

“It would destroy the wand,” Serador explains, struggling to sit upright, “and the odds of success are low. It’s more important to preserve it for future generations if there is to be any hope for an insurrection.”

Rolith looks at the wand skeptically. “I thought it was just an heirloom.”

The vampire coughs into his fist, his shoulders shaking in violent jerks. “The Queen’s father was a legendary cleric, as you know. If you and your people want to harness the power of the forbidden magics and overthrow the corrupt court, then you’ll need that wand.” He gives Rolith a pointed look. “I can’t teach you everything.”

The paladin frowns. It’s true Serador taught him illegal spells to use against the undead. The enchantments aided him in defeating an evil witch, but the vampire was burned by simply being in close-proximity when Rolith cast the spell. Serador has taken great risks in aiding them in their goal of freeing humankind… and now he would sacrifice his only chance at life for their sakes?

Rolith shakes his head. “Then there has to be another way to break the curse.”

The vampire sports a wry smile. “As much as I admire your optimism, I’ve been around for much longer than you’ve been alive. I doubt there’s a cure.”

“Well, I’ll find one,” he asserts, leveling Serador with a challenging look. He doesn’t appreciate being told what he can and cannot do by vampires, especially when he’s trying to help. He takes a step closer to the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, fire burning in his blue eyes.

“You might’ve given up on your life, but I—we haven’t. Queen Juliet wishes to continue her alliance with you. Your help has been immeasurable, and I know the other paladins feel the same. You’ve saved my life multiple times. It’s only right that I return the favor.” Rolith takes a gamble and reaches for the vampire’s hand, squeezing his pale fingers in a reassuring grip. “I’ll help you break the curse. I promise.”

Serador meets his gaze with an unreadable expression. Rolith has always struggled to understand him because of their differences. He’s loathed all vampires for so long, it’s taken him a while to realize that Serador is a valuable ally and a good person. Before he can even attempt to dissect the nuances of his face, Serador breaks his silence.

“Do you ever cease to be charming?” he murmurs. It’s the first compliment the vampire has ever given him, and the words level Rolith. His breath catches, and he has to clear his throat before speaking.

“Only on my days off. Right now I’m here on the Queen’s dime.”

The vampire pulls his hand away to brush back several strands of long, white hair from his face. “Of course you are.”

Rolith smiles briefly before his face settles into a grave expression once again. Although he enjoys how far they have come since meeting each other (Serador no longer calls him ‘boy’ in a derogatory way), the pleasantness of their camaraderie is overshadowed by the revelation of a deadly curse.

“What can I do to help? You’re not going to be confined to your bed forever, right?”

“I should hope not,” the vampire huffs, smoothing down the stained sleeves of his black robes. “I should be back to normal in a couple days. It comes and goes in waves.”

“What about…” Rolith bites his lip and gestures vaguely, “When was the last time you fed?”

Serador’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “It’s been a while.”

Eager to help, an idea forming in his mind, Rolith continues, “Would that help? If you had something?”

The vampire sets his jaw. He doesn’t speak. Rolith takes that as a yes. His hand goes to his blade, and Serador makes an insulted noise.

“Whatever you’re thinking, I won’t allow it.”

The paladin unsheathes his sword and rests it in his lap. “Why not? I’m perfectly healthy, you’re on the verge of death… if I can hasten your recovery—”

“No,” Serador cuts in, his voice stronger than it has been all throughout their conversation thus far. He seems resolute in his refusal, but Rolith knows that a vampire’s morality blurs at the edges of hunger, so he takes a deep breath and presses the sharp edge of his blade against his palm. He pauses there, waiting for protest, but Serador doesn’t say anything further to stop him, so he drags the sword across his skin and slices open a thin red cut. It stings, but only a few beads of blood rise to the surface. He looks Serador in the eye. The vampire’s breathing is labored as if his fight against his baser instincts is a physical effort.

“I trust you,” Rolith reassures, even though he knows he’s already won this argument. “Just take a little bit, since you’re so worried. I’ll even get it healed later today.”

Serador raises a trembling arm and wraps his clammy fingers around his wrist in a delicate manner, gently pulling his hand closer. With his other hand, he caresses the inside of his forearm soothingly, as if calming a spooked animal. Shivers race down Rolith’s spine, but he isn’t afraid of a little pain. He’s willing to endure it for a friend. 

Serador opens his mouth and slowly sinks his fangs into the cut, widening the wound a bit. An odd sensation spreads across his palm—the venom must be numbing him. The vampire seals his lips over the cut and sucks slowly, eyes closed. The whole affair feels strangely intimate, and although he knows blood is being leached from his body, Rolith can’t look away. He doesn’t tell him to stop, either. He was serious when he said he intended to find a way to break Serador’s curse. He doesn’t intend to let the vampire wither away anytime soon.

A couple minutes later, some of the color has returned to Serador’s face, and he pulls away with a wet pop. Rolith’s fingers are tingling, but otherwise he feels fine. The vampire licks the wound clean and then grasps his palm with both hands. Warmth spreads across his skin in a flash of golden light, and when Serador lets go, the cut has healed.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Rolith says, rubbing his thumb across his palm where the slice had been. Serador sits back against his pile of pillows, evening his breath. His face is placid, but underneath his calm demeanor, he looks refreshed.

“You didn’t need to offer yourself to me,” he counters with a tilt of his head.

“I wanted to.” Rolith wipes his blade clean on the sheets, earning a disgruntled huff from the owner of the bed, before sheathing his weapon.

“If I were in a better state, I would’ve never let you do something so unnecessary and, frankly, dangerous,” Serador insists, coming back to himself now. He looks embarrassed, but he really shouldn’t be, in Rolith’s opinion. “Don’t try that again.”

“Alright,” the paladin agrees. He doesn’t regret encouraging Serador to drink from him against his wishes. If it keeps Serador alive, he’ll do it, even if it makes the vampire uncomfortable. He recognizes that he overstepped a boundary, though, so he stands up from the bed and looks away. “I’m sorry.”

Serador snorts. “You’re not. But you should be.”

Rolith’s lips quirk up in a half-smile, unbidden. “I have to tell the Queen why you returned the wand, you know.”

“I suppose you do.” The vampire doesn’t sound happy about that. “While you’re at it, tell her to stop sending trespassers into my home.”

Rolith’s smile broadens into a grin. He pockets the wand, handling it with much more care than he did previously. “I might advise her to send a cleaning crew over, if anything.”

There’s a long pause, and then, “You are one of the most audacious humans I have ever met.”

Rolith laughs, daring to meet the vampire’s eyes. He looked genuinely affronted, which only amuses him more. “You clearly haven’t met enough humans, then.”

“Clearly,” Serador drawls, “Now get out of my house.”

“Gladly,” Rolith shoots back, even though he would rather stay and ensure the vampire doesn’t drop dead anytime soon. He slowly moves toward the door, hesitant. The hallway is dark. He glances over his shoulder briefly and catches one last glimpse of Serador. He’s looking down at his hand, the evening sunlight casting shadows over the bed.

Rolith steps into the darkness and leaves before he can be caught watching.

Take a break, the moon is in sleepy and dreamy Pisces ^^

Question: how do you handle a cold? I’ve been coughing for two days straight (tested negative for Covid) but I can’t seem to shake this…. any tips? <3

-selfcaresquid

sanquintina:

snotslime2:

I’m not even much of a fan of coughing but when someone goes straight from a sneeze into cough it sounds so sick & it makes my heart feel like someone tried to squeeze all the juice out of it. Please Let Me Take Care Of You.

YES. Nothing says “really sick” like a sneeze dragging out some coughs in it’s wake. Simply lovely!!

notfeelingsowell:

• pressing a hand to their forehead to check if they have a temperature
  
• pressing the back of their fingers to their cheek to check if they have a temperature
  
• cuddles + hair stroking
• even though it’s technically not a scientifically sound thing, characters getting sick from not wearing enough layers or getting caught in the rain
• along those lines, one of the character’s who’s soaked through or shivering starts to sneeze a couple times, and their s/o just panicking a little and starting to fuss over them, wrapping them up in blankets and sitting them down in front of the fire and monitoring them to see if they’re symptoms get worse
• the character being so sick and out of it that they can’t walk by themselves, and they have to be supported or carried
• the character just looking like the poster of a sick person - pale face, flushed cheeks, bags under their eyes, blankets wrapped up to their neck, and a thermometer under their tongue
• the sickie insisting that their s/o goes to work but the s/o refuses to leave their side
• anxious hovering caretakers
• the sickie having a coughing fit so hard that they sway and almost fall over and their friend/family member/partner has to steady them
• the sickie waking up from a feverish sleep, expecting their s/o to be gone, only to find them asleep on a chair at their bedside

graphicmedicalstuff:

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