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@hurtcomforthell
I imagine, because of how good elvish medicine and all that is, Legolas has never had to deal with any really bad illnesses. Which he then takes for granted that elves just typically don’t get sick, that is, until he is no longer living around other elves anymore.
Also I caught a cold and I must express my suffering through fictional characters lol…
Edit: There is a part 2 to this now
Thanks for the prompt, anon! Hopefully you like tooth-rotting fluff, because that’s the rabbit hole this fic went down.
……………………………………
“Well, Obi-Wan” Bant said. Obi-Wan jolted awake from a catnap he didn’t realize he was taking when his old friend strode into the room, scrolling through a chart on her datapad. “Your blood sugar’s fine, lab results look fine, and I’m not seeing any problem with your heart readout.”
Obi-Wan gave Bant a longsuffering smile, accompanied by what might have been the slightest roll of his eyes. “Like I said, Anakin overreacted.”
“You fainted. He was completely justified in bringing you here,” she admonished, removing the wires from his EKG leads and leaving him to pull off the stickers and rearrange his clothes. “I’m going to put you on medical suspension for the next five days.”
“What?!”
“You’ll be fine, you’re just exhausted. When’s the last time you were actually on leave? Not counting the times the 212th was on leave but the Council sent you off to do something else?”
“There’s a war,” Obi-Wan reasoned.
“And you’re down four kilos since your last physical. Our bodies weren’t made to be under such constant stress.”
Being the Republic’s beloved Negotiator came with a price, namely that the Council came up with missions for him faster than he could complete them. And the big overachieving idealist that he was, he couldn’t seem to tell them no. The Council, wrapped up in its own goals, rarely seemed to consider the needs of their most efficient teams, but Bant decided she would leave them no choice. They could not argue with a medical suspension.
“This is unnecessary,” said Obi-Wan, stifling a yawn in spite of himself. Bant ignored him.
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I absolutley love your blog- hurt/comfort fics are my favorite to read and to write. I know you're busy with nano, as am I, but I was wondering if you could write something with a very protective/fussy Anakin over a sick or hurt Ahsoka? He's just such a great Jedi Dad and there's not enough fics about him being all affectionate and wanting to give her hugs and make her feel better. Please and thank you! Y'all are awesome!!!!!
It is almost a rite of passagefor new masters—caring for a sick padawan for the first time.
“Ahsoka,” Anakin’s voicetrembles, sounding worried even though there’s nothing to worry about. Ahsoka’smedicine finally kicked in and she managed to rest on the living room sofauntil the sneezing fits returned a few minutes ago. Ahsoka doesn’t hear him asshe’s blowing her nose.
“She is not an infant, Anakin, she is capable of telling you what sheneeds. Use your judgement, and if you’re concerned, comm the healers.” Obi-Wanhad said when Anakin commed him earlier. He’d seemed amused that Anakin wantedhis help with something so simple.
“Snips,” Anakin tries again.“Feeling any better?”
“Worse,” she sighs with a petulantsniff.
“Want to try the warm compressagain?”
Ahsoka nods and hands him a dampcloth that was sitting on the ottoman. Anakin wrings it out in the kitchen sinkand places it in the heating unit for 20 seconds before returning it.
“Thanks,” Ahsoka mumbles as shelays the warm cloth across her sinuses to ease some of the painful pressure.She looks up at him with a grateful sort of trust that doesn’t match theuncertainty he feels. She believes that he knows what to do. He almost laughs,because he doesn’t.
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how abt this!!!! Connor is very feverish and generally glitchy, and no matter what they do, his fever wont come down!!! Bc it’s due to a malfunctioning part. so he and hank have to go to the android graveyard to grab some spare parts (no cyber life bitch!!!! repair shops are closed!!!) and etc. etc. Connor whump ensues
I love you and this prompt!
so this is the fic that sucked real bad. I’m glad you convinced me to finish it! it doesn’t suck as badly as I thought it was going to, though it’s still by no means my best and I still don’t love it. It was my first stab at writing RK900 and Gavin being friends post-revolution, and I think they’re cuties, so I’m glad I didn’t go with my other instinct and write RK900 out of the fic. Like I said, not great, but it’s something I’m glad I finished!
And this isn’t aimed toward you @quietnocturne but I’m putting it at the top of my fics now just because ya girl is moving and might go get some higher education (a PhD? a JD? who knows??) and has a heart condition: if’n anyone wants to support me by tossin’ a dollar or so my way, you can do so here!
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I’m turning 17 on the 28th, but feel free to use this as an excuse to write whatever you want! I’ll read pretty much anything you write tbh
I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS BECAUSE I SURE LIKE YOU
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Me when I discovered that there were other people who loved whump like I did
ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
trust-colored eyes
Hello! This is my first of hopefully many fics for The Mandalorian!
He dozes off without meaning to, a small slip-up spanned from growing exhaustion.
He spent majority of the day walking through vast, snowy woods of a seemingly abandoned planet with the kid perched on his shoulder. It grew dark faster than he expected, and they were quite far from his ship. He started a fire and set up a small camp for the night, and the quiet crackling mixed with the comfortable heat of the fire left his eyes drooping until his mind grew quiet.
He’s not out long. It’s not the faint crunch of a boot on snow that pulls him awake; it’s the soft whimper from the kid that has his eyes shooting open and his hand going straight for the blaster at his side.
“Move, and this creature dies.”
Though his heart is pounding loud enough to drown his ears, he can hear the faint beeping of a tracking device, and slowly, he raises both hands in a show of small surrender. He carefully moves his head toward the voice, and across from him, with large flames of the fire separating them, he sees some asshole with a blaster pressed to the kid’s head.
“Let the kid go,” he growls out from deep within his chest.
“Why? This thing is my target, and I’ll make a pretty price off of it.”
His mind is moving far faster than he would like. He’s playing through scenarios, frantically searching for the next words that will derail the situation without the kid getting hurt.
“But…”
He keeps his eyes trained to the blaster that’s pushed against the kid’s skin but draws his attention toward the next sentence.
“Your armor… It looks expensive.”
“Get on with it,” he spits out, agitation spiking across his bones, his fingers twitching to snag his blaster.
“I’ll let you have the kid unharmed if you give me your armor. All of it.”
He drags his gaze from the blaster to the unhinged man before he slowly moves his hand to his chest plate.
“Stop.”
He freezes, cocking his head to the left in silent question.
“Helmet first. I want to look the Mando I bested in the eyes.”
He moves his hands toward his helmet, one hand against each side of cool metal, but anxiety bubbles in his chest. His mind is at war with itself, and his heart is beginning to pick up in speed once more. He hits a brief moment of defeat, sure that he cannot go through with removing his helmet, but then the kid cries out to him softly, and his heart jerks painfully against his chest.
He puffs out a shaking sigh before he slides the helmet up and off his head. The heat of the fire hits his bare cheeks instantly, and his rapid breaths cloud in front of him.
“Wow, a pretty boy. Shame you chose such a disguised religion. Let me see it.”
He gets to his feet carefully, hands still raised, and moves around the fire until he’s beside the two. He drops his helmet into the outstretched hand, watching carefully as the man’s focus shifts toward the expensive hunk of metal. The man’s eyes almost gleam at the sight, and he uses this brief moment of distraction to act.
Without a clear plan, he reaches for his helmet, moving faster than the man, and slams the helmet against the man’s face. The man loses his balance, and that’s all he needs.
He dodges a few sporadic shots of the blaster before he grabs the man’s wrist, snapping it so he can get a steady hold of the weapon.
He can hear the light thump of the kid falling to the ground. He wants to look, but the man is already pushing back up with a curse.
“You son of a–”
He presses the blaster to the man’s forehead and shoots. Blood splatters all around him, and the man’s body slumps to the ground. For a moment, only the sound of his heavy breathing and the crackling fire chase the faint echo of the blaster shot, but then the kid cries out, and he drops the blaster and spins on his heel.
The kid is lying in the snow, struggling to get up, and he drops to his knees beside it, gently lifting the shaking body to its feet. Their eyes meet, a deep black gaze against a worried, furrowed one, but then the kid coos lightly and smiles at him, ears wiggling.
Relief washes heavily over him, and he sighs, long and deep, shoulders slumping as tense muscles smooth to a warm comfort.
“Looks like this planet is a no-go,” he mutters, scooping the kid up with one hand while he snags his helmet with the other. There’s blood splattered across the clean metal, and he slides it over his head before pressing the kid close to his chest.
He kicks some snow over the fire, spares a glance toward the lifeless body, then starts the long trek back to his ship, stopping only to smash his boot against the beeping tracker.
a star trek fic! it’s short and the ending sucks. written mostly either at work or home sick. hope y’all like it <3 it’s kirk and chekov bonding because i love them both SO much!! also bones being irritable because i love my boys
Chekov hadn’t realized that his eyes had slipped closed until the sound of a hand slamming on the desk in front of him startled him into opening them.
“Mr. Chekov,” Kirk barked harshly and not quietly, “you were drifting.”
He felt his cheeks heat up and knew that they were turning bright red in that way that he hated, the way they did when he was embarrassed.
“I am sorry, Captain,” he apologized. “I’m awake.”
On a normal day, that would have been enough to satisfy Jim. He was a great captain—even better than in Chekov’s wildest dreams—who valued his crew’s health and happiness above everything else. He’d bring coffee to people who were dragging at the beginning of the day or refer sore crew members to medical after the end of their shifts for a muscle relaxant so they could get a more comfortable sleep.
However, Chekov also knew that these circumstances weren’t exactly normal. Everyone had been walking on eggshells around Jim lately because everything seemed to stress him out. He hadn’t been angry or, really, even too cranky, but every time Sulu brought up a signal that needed a second opinion or Scotty asked about the status of new ship parts he’d ordered to replace the ones that were beginning to show signs of wear, it seemed to add another line of worry to Kirk’s constantly-creased forehead. Everything rested on his shoulders, it felt like, and two and a half years into their five-year mission, that was beginning to take its toll.
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I am finally here with Good Omens prompts!! Okay, so let me know if you don't like this and I can try again, but I D E S I R E more crowley sickfic content :) maybe he has a fever and doesn't even realize because mortal stuff is so foreign to him that he can't figure out why his head hurts and he's dizzy until Aziraphale points it out? :)
HELL YEAH I CAN!! I need more Crowley sickfic in this fandom so hear is this fic! I had an idea in mind for this prompt and somehow, my keyboard decided to take a different one and run with it but I hope you like it!
When Crowley showed up late, it was fashionable, if a bit unusual for a lunch date with his – with the angel. A lunch appointment. A casual meet-up, maybe.
They had made reservations at the Ritz for 8:00 sharp, and according to Crowley’s mobile, it was 8:20 when he came sauntering in to sit across from Aziraphale.
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would you be interested in writing whump for Crowley trying not to sleep next to Aziraphale bc he’s been having nightmares, but he dozes off and does have one, cue comforting Aziraphale? I love all your fics ❤️❤️❤️
Thank you for your kind words! I hate this fic but I hope you like it, anyway!
If’n you like this fic and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee here!
Although it hadn’t hurt him in the same way it would have Aziraphale and he was grateful that their swap had saved his life, Crowley still dreamt of fire.
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I Know
Inspired by this post by @corellon-grace
Best read to the sounds of Up In Flames by Coldplay or Goodnight, Travel Well by The Killers (alternatively, one after the other)
(One Swear contained, and lots of angst, but its otherwise PG)
He always knew the end would come, like a bird knows it has to nest when the leaves begin to bud. There was a plan of course, the Great Ineffable Plan, and as much as Aziraphale meddled (or didn’t) with the little goodness that remained on Earth, what had been set in motion would be whether he liked it or not. So he knew that there would come a day when he’d have to leave this world behind, to say goodbye to his books and the arrangement with Crowley for good. Aziraphale had kept his unshakeable faith throughout the years. He was certain that whatever happened and whatever he felt, if God intended it then it must be good.
Still, there’s a difference between knowing and Knowing. And recently, Aziraphale had started to think that maybe if the apocalypse was just delayed it wouldnt be such a bad thing after all, so as he finished what was quite possibly one of the most important books created in human history and brushed the dust off his shoulders, he picked up the phone and rang his demonic counterpart.
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Even BETTER you’re doing prompts! Maybe Crowley and Aziraphale on a (date) mission to find some sort of artifact but they didn’t know how powerful it was or that it was holy and Crowley gets weaker and weaker the closer they get to it but he doesn’t want To be a bother to Zira and maybe collapses? Literally ANYTHING with caretaker Aziraphale gives me 10 years to my lifespan. SO HAPPY YOURE WRITING GOOD OMENS!
this is pretty short and also it’s my first time writing them so their voices might be off, and ALSO i misread your prompt a little, so I’m 0 for 3 on the chances that this is going to be good, but at least it exists now and it didn’t before!! :) I hope you like it, anyway, even though it’s a little different from what you suggested!!
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For Crowley hurt/comfort prompt: Something to do with poison and disorientation?
why is everything I’m writing coming out so fucking fluffy omg?? i normally put so much more emphasis on the hurt than the comfort… someone send help
If’n you want to buy me a coffee, you can do so here!
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That ask you filled about sick Aziraphale was so cute... turned tables, Crowley is sick and Zira is the caretaker??
So, this became something very different to what I believe the intention behind this prompt meant. However, I personally think it still matches the prompt and thus I hope you like it too :D The tense change is intentional, by the way.
It was somewhere around the time that they both first found themselves in Soho, Aziraphale with his bookshop and Crowley planning a nail-biting (for the angel) heist, that Aziraphale first saw Crowley with one of his migraines. They’d been out on a celebratory walk (celebrating the store’s grand opening by closing it for the afternoon was Crowley’s idea) (not that Aziraphale had put up much of a fight) around the park. Crowley had left his jacket in the store along with Aziraphale’s coat due to the bleeding hot weather, the sun beating down on the earth like it was intentionally trying to blind them all. How Aziraphale wasn’t wearing sunglasses to fend off some of the light was a mystery. Aziraphale was talking about something or other in that long winded fashion of his that meant he was ranting, possibly about the preachy man on a soap box not far in front of them, which in turn meant it was safe for Crowley to zone out a little. He was very sure the angel wasn’t ranting about him. If Aziraphale was ranting about him then they wouldn’t still be walking along arm in arm. The looks they got were a bit odd but most of the population were in fact struggling with the heat as much as Crowley was so nothing progressed further than the occasional whispered comment to an accompanying companion.
He was just starting to consider directing them back to the bookshop when Aziraphale yanked him to the side. Aziraphale’s other arm was tugging him further across the path before Crowley even regained his sense of right and left. He tried to push away, affronted at being randomly thrown about but Aziraphale just held onto him harder, arms trembling a little as they held Crowley in an embrace. Crowley frowned in confusion at the preachy man currently frozen mid-speech on the other side of the path to them.
“Uh,” he said, his chin tickled by Aziraphale’s hair, “what’s happening?”
Aziraphale huffed a shaky exhale and pushed himself back, looking Crowley up and down a couple of times. It was at this moment that Crowley realised that, in the strange turn of events, his glasses had fallen off somewhere. Any other time and he’d have been far more concerned about it and the fact that his spares were in his jacket currently not on him. But, as it was, Aziraphale looked as if he’d just evaded death by hellfire. Crowley was starting to feel a little panicky himself. The now unrestrained light was starting to hurt his eyes, waves of aching pain radiating through his head. And Aziraphale…Aziraphale was…
“Fine, everything’s fine,” Aziraphale sputtered out at last, his grip on Crowley’s arms tight still and his expression manic. “You’re fine. I’m fine. Everything- everything is just- just fine.”
“Angel? What just happened?”
“You uh…Well, you see, that man,” Aziraphale said the word as if the man in question was actually Lucifer himself, “started to flick around ‘holy water’ and I thought it was nothing to be worried about except it’s actually holy water and you um…”
Crowley blanched and took an aborted step back, his heel eliciting a sharp crack from something on the ground. He ignored it. “Fucking– I almost just– By him?”
Aziraphale nodded, sheepish. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I should have realised sooner and steered us elsewhere. I knew you weren’t really paying attention.”
“Stop it, it’s not your fault.” Crowley snapped, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun. He could really do with a sit down. Somewhere dark and not, apparently, a death trap.
Aziraphale’s fingers brushed against his for a beautiful second and then the angel was making another noise and honestly, Crowley didn’t think he could take another near-death experience right then so if that man was coming closer with his thrice blessed water, Crowley may just blink him out of existence.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, “your glasses.”
“Yes, I know,” Crowley said without opening his eyes, lifting one hand to block some of the sun, “they’ve been dropped somewhere. I’ll find them in a second just give me a minute.”
“No. No, my dear boy, you’re standing on them.”
Crowley snapped his eyes open to look down at the floor. What he had assumed was a broken bit of glass or something was in fact his own glasses.
“Shit.”
“Don’t you have spares?”
“Do I look like I have my jacket right now?” He snapped, kicking the shattered eyewear to the edge of the path and stalking away. Towards the bookshop. Because it was closer. No other reason at all. He pretended not to notice when Aziraphale miracles the glasses into a nearby bin.
Aziraphale caught up with him quickly, looping their arms together again. He was shaking a little still. Crowley slowed his pace and didn’t push him away.
***
Crowley didn’t bother waiting for Aziraphale to dig out the key to the bookshop, he just clicked his fingers and strode in. Relying on Aziraphale to close the door behind him. It was blessedly cool in the shop. Darker too. Dim lighting only from the windows. Crowley made his way to the sofa and lay down on it, closing his eyes. Listening to the bustling of his angel making sure everything is still in its place. He could hear him making drinks and then there was a hot drink set on the floor by his head. He grumbled what he hoped was a vaguely grateful noise in response. There was a brush of lips, familiar and intended to never be spoken of, on his forehead. Crowley falls asleep after that.
***
It’s not until the next day that Crowley feels it’s safe to lift his head from the sofa for longer than a couple of minutes to down the cups of tea Aziraphale leaves for him. When he does manage it Aziraphale is there, at eye level as he’s been caught mid-tea-exchange. Crowley raises a brow at him when Aziraphale does nothing more than stare. That prompts the angel into action and he straightens up, handing the new mug of tea directly into Crowley’s hands. Crowley can’t remember how often he’s had fresh mugs of tea but it must have been very often because, on reflex, Aziraphale still leans in to press a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head. The demon sits there, vaguely flummoxed, and pats the sofa space next to him. Aziraphale takes the hint.
“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks, twiddling his thumbs in his lap.
“Better.” Crowley sips the tea, it’s almost perfect, needs a little less milk. “How long was I out?”
“Just a day,” Aziraphale starts rummaging in a pocket suddenly and produces a pair of folded sunglasses, he holds them out. “Did you want these back now?”
“Are those from my jacket?”
Aziraphale nods and waves them a bit as if to say ‘go on now, take them, you great idiot’. Crowley does but only to balance them on the sofa arm on his other side. The lighting in here never hurts, he’s found. He’s also not always sensitive to the light. Just when it’s extreme.
“Has that,” Aziraphale asks cautiously, “happened before?”
“Yeah,” Crowley says, casually sipping his tea again and leaning back, flinging one arm behind the angel next to them. “Just a bit of a migraine is all.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, a look of relief spreading across his face. “I thought maybe some of the water had gotten on you.”
Crowley frowns, feeling a tad insulted. “Angel, I wouldn’t lie to you about that. Brush it off and ignore it, yes. But I wouldn’t lie to you about it.”
Aziraphale pats his knee. “I know, my dear, but you are a demon.”
Crowley huffs in defeat and drinks his tea. He makes a note to be as frustratingly patronising to Aziraphale if the angel is ever the one who’s ill.
if you're still doing crowley whump asks, how about some overexertion/exhaustion? (the reason can be your choice)
thank you so much for this prompt! It really spoke to me, even though it took a minute to get myself together and actually write it, lol. I hope you like it! :)
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for crowley hurt/comfort prompts can you do crowley getting stuck in bad icy weather and having to deal with cold while being cold blooded ?
so this is my most-requested Good Omens prompt by far and hypothermia fics are my absolute Achilles heel—I’m awful at writing them, lol. Sorry this is very short and extremely fluffy! I hope y’all enjoy it, anyway!
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