Nyck sickfic for the soul please 🥺
Sick with the Man-Flu
A Nyck de Vries imagine
To all the he/hims and he/theys and whatever pronouns you use, the man-flu is a serious disease and you deserve to be babied from time to time 🫡
word count: ~200 words
p.s.: my Dutch is a little rusty whoops
Your study notes were spread all over the kitchen aisle, various topics you needed to memorise decorating the island; to an outsider, there was no rhyme or reason to the distribution of printed out articles, self-written cards, and different kinds of highlighters.
But this was your chaos, and you were its master; breaking your concentration once you got to this point was no easy task, yet Nyck had mastered it all the same.
He had slung his arms around your middle, pulling himself into your back, resting his head between your shoulder blades. Intermittently, he squeezed you a little tighter and made pitiful noises—sometimes sniffles, sometimes coughs that resembled those of a dying puppy.
"Hoe gaat het met je, knuffelbeer?" How are you doing, teddy bear?
You asked him, almost absentmindedly, while still trying to comprehend the meaning of your notes.
"Helemaal niet goed," Nyck croaked out in reply; you could hear the stress in his throat in the way he talked, like it pained him to speak any louder than a whisper. Not good at all
"Want me to make you some tea with honey while you get more rest to nurse your cold?"
Nyck nodded into your back, squeezed your middle one last time, and padded back into the bedroom, which he probably shouldn't have left to begin with.














