hello! i'm a disabled snzbian very into the vulnerability, care and acceptance that can be found in snz and sick fiction.
i like a lot of gross stuff because it's nice to think about being cared for not just despite but because of what others could find disgusting. however, while i'm fascinated by these things irl i'm only attracted to them in a fictional context! not judging if you are, it just doesn't float my personal boat!
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likes: mess, illness, snotfuckery, colds, coughs, chest infections, stuffy talk, congestion, wlw sexy scenes, friend/found family and queerplatonic dynamics
neutral on: allergies, blowing
not my cup of tea: inducing with objects, non-wlw sexy scenes, most humiliation, anthro
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i'm not comfortable with devotees interacting with this blog - if you're not disabled and your fetish is disability rather than illness please dni.
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ocs:
modern: yasu (she/they) and kim (she/her), wives who've been happily married for 9-20 years (it depends what version of the story they're telling).
yasu: early to mid 40s. she's a japanese-american and thai masc butch. short black hair with a few grey streaks. petite. hard of hearing in her left ear (does not wear hearing aid). hot-tempered and hardworking middle manager who's patient with her employees but not with upper management. she's immunocompromised, getting sick very often and every slight illness hitting her hard. she would be at senior executive level in her company if she wasn't sick so often. works through it until she can't. dominant and has the kink.
kim: early to mid 40s. afrobrazilian lady warm brown skin and long wavy black hair with fine dustings of grey. tall proud trans femme. assorted work (retail etc). more easygoing than yasu. hypermobile. strong immune system, but still ill regularly with milder versions of what yasu's brought home. switch and has the kink. loving caretaker to yasu.
standard medieval fantasy: queen grimmaud (she/Her) and captain petron (he/xey), evil (in a camp, cartoony way) ruler of a small kingdom and her spouse. light d/s elements.
queen grimmaud: ~20s. brown skin and long, curly black hair that she ties back. a few scars. would be high femme except for the fact that petron calls her 'sir'. a competent and ambitious ruler and witch, she cares about her underlings and enjoys cackling in thunderstorms. likes to dress in red, gold and black.
captain petron: head of grimmaud's elite guard and troops. they started out as co-workers, then fell in love on the side. ~20s/30s, tawny skin and straight, tightly bound black hair; presents somewhat androgynous. workaholic strategist prone to getting colds from grimmaud's thunderstorms... as is most of the kingdom. likes to dress in black.
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i'm happy to answer asks, especially writing requests for my ocs!
So the hindbrain wrote this one. CW for: inducing, contagion, mess, stuffy-talk, character with the kink, and absolute desecration of characters from classic literature. Very glad Mr. Dumas is not around to see what I've done here. How far we've strayed from the light.
This is a marked departure from what I usually write and I honestly don't know what came over me. I'm very nervous about posting it for some reason (?) so please be kind.
“Hehh… uhhh…” For the umpteenth time that day, the sneeze which had been building and dragging Aramis to the precipice now abandoned him there, snuffly breaths hitching as he rubbed his hands over his face with a groan. “Snf!” His nose squelched as he rubbed at it, in one last vain attempt to coax the sneeze forward. He huffed miserably. “I’m so ill, Porthos.”
As attractive as it was to watch Aramis’s face go through the slow, agonizing permutations of readying to sneeze time and time again, Porthos felt terrible for him. “I know,” he said, biting at his lip. “I didn’t have it half as bad as you.”
Aramis coughed, the sound wet and congested. Porthos’s own cough hadn’t sounded that bad, had it? He thought back to when he’d been sick with this cold. The first couple days it hadn’t been bad enough to keep him from duty, so Aramis had merely hovered beside him like a worried nursemaid, urging him to drink often and offering his own waterskin when Porthos’s had run dry. Then when Treville had taken him off duty to prohibit him from sneezing on the royal court, Aramis had been with him in his every spare moment, pouring him tea and washing his sodden handkerchiefs. Really, Porthos supposed, he should have expected that just as soon as his own sniffling diminished, Aramis’s increased, as though the cold had just seeped from his head into his friend’s.
Aramis’s croak drew him back to the present. He flopped his arm around miserably on the bed. “I’m beginning to think I’ll ne-eh’hehhh—never be well again. Snf!”
Porthos couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “Well, that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
Aramis shot upward, curled in on himself in what Porthos was sure would end in a sneeze, only for his nose to be left a dripping, flaring, unsatisfied mess as the sensation abandoned him once more. “HEHH...ohh.” He pressed the back of his hand hard against his nose with a set of marshy sniffles. “If I could only sneeze, the world would look so much brighter.”
In more ways than one, Porthos thought, making a concerted effort to swallow down the fluttering feeling in his stomach. He felt bad enough that he was enjoying his friend’s misery in a way; he would be damned if Aramis found out about that fact. Whereas the day previous Aramis had been veritably unable to stop sneezing, each expulsion somehow leaving him sounding more congested than the last, today he was many times taunted but never satisfied. Yesterday had brought its own challenges when Porthos had come to check on him, namely the need to hide any untoward reactions to his friend’s desperately ill sneezes, but when Porthos had agreed with Aramis’s plea for the heavens to make him stop sneezing, it hadn’t been with this new misery in mind. Misery for Aramis, but also for Porthos, because these near-sneezes were hardly any better.
Aramis coughed again, rubbing at the swollen glands near his jaw. “Oh, and my throat,” he moaned with a harsh swallow. “And my ear.” He winced as the coughs continued and Porthos felt his heart split in two. No sooner did the coughs cease than did his breaths begin to hitch again–
“Hehhh…Ihhh…IHHHhh–”
–only to fade away into nothingness once more. Poor Aramis let out a hoarse, throaty groan, and that pitiful noise not only increased Porthos’s concern but also must have banished whatever sense he possessed, for he suddenly heard himself saying, “I think I know something that could help you with the sneezes.”
Luckily, Aramis’s eyes were closed as he pinched and rubbed at his leaking nose, for Porthos was sure he looked like the portrait of a mortified man. His hands shook slightly and he blinked; help him? Dear God, what was Porthos thinking, exposing himself like that? Worse, what if Aramis accepted? How could Porthos pretend to be normal in that?
A second passed in which Aramis said nothing, and so Porthos rushed in with a fumbling attempt to somehow explain his offer. “It’s something I’ve done–uhh, it’s a bit unconventional… but…” Good Lord, Porthos thought, he was merely digging himself deeper into this godforsaken hole.
“Porthos,” Aramis sighed, cracking open a tired eye at him, “at this point I would join the Cardinal’s Guard if it would make me feel better.”
Porthos gasped in mock scandal. “You don’t mean that.”
He was stalling, this much he knew, but he also knew he would rather be trampled by every horse in the garrison than continue this conversation, even though Porthos had been the fool who brought this whole predicament upon himself in the first place.
Aramis said nothing in reply, merely fished his handkerchief out from beneath the blankets and gave a liquid blow into it. He fixed his gaze balefully on Porthos when he finished, rubbing at his nose with the corner of the cloth in slow, slurpy circles. He looked so utterly miserable, his cheeks flushed, his nose chapped, his eyes bruised with purple, that Porthos knew instantly he would swallow every inch of his pride to make him feel better.
“Sit up, then,” Porthos said, and said a quick prayer to nothing at all to help him, for surely this was out of God’s domain. “I have a feeling this might help you.”
Aramis grumbled and groaned but did as Porthos bid him, dragging himself into a seated position and swaddling the thickest quilt from his bedsheets around his shoulders. Meanwhile, Porthos went to the post at the wall where he had hung his own hat and plucked one of the feathers from it. He cared far less for his hat than Aramis did, and anyway he knew that Aramis was planning to give him a new one for his birthday that year, as the man could really be horrible at keeping secrets sometimes. As such, one feather now could be sacrificed to the cause.
Porthos returned to the bed and took a seat across from the bundled, shivering Aramis. His heavy-lidded eyes fell upon the feather which Porthos twisted nervously between his fingers and he grinned, even as Porthos wished the floor would swallow him whole.
“Ahh, I see,” Aramis murmured, and Porthos nearly lept to the ceiling.
“You-you see?”
“Would you believe me if I said I’ve done this before, too?”
At this, Porthos’s heart nearly stopped. He felt dizzy, felt his mouth drop open, unable to believe what he was hearing. Aramis continued. “With a feather, I mean. I used to know a woman who was quite, shall we say, fond of sneezes.” Porthos could already feel his cheeks burning, but then Aramis’s eyes took on a far-off sparkle, glimmering with pride, and the words which accompanied them were almost his undoing.
“Especially mine, so she said.”
I’m inclined to agree with her, Porthos thought. His cheeks felt positively aflame now, and Porthos hardly knew how he managed to keep his voice from being a croak as he asked, “By fond do you mean…” He licked his lips, almost praying that Aramis would spare him completing his question. “Aroused?”
Aramis smiled. “I was trying to be discreet, but yes.” That same faraway look of pride gleamed in his eyes again, and Porthos wished he could slap the man for it. “Ah, I wonder if she’s found a better sneezer than I.”
At once, Porthos’s mind supplied him with I doubt it, and wished he could slap Aramis for prompting that, too. To hide the tremble he felt rising in his voice, Porthos scoffed. “You,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Discreet.”
“I am very discreet, dear Porthos.” Aramis laid his hand across Porthos’s, the one which held the feather, and Porthos could feel the man’s fever even through his fingers. “Notice how I have not so much as disclosed her name.” Removing his hands, Aramis pressed his thumbs beneath his eyes, near the bridge of his nose and massaged himself lightly. He groaned softly at the contact. “Snf! Now, enough reminiscing. My nose is positively stopped full and it n-n-eh-needs your help. Snf!”
If the Lord did exist, He must have been very displeased with Porthos, for He was surely testing every mite of Porthos’s resolve this day. Porthos raised the feather slowly, his hand trembling so badly he was worried he might jab Aramis in the eye with it. He was almost unable to look Aramis in the face but he forced himself to, trying to distance himself from the thought that he was really doing this, that he was really putting a feather to his friend’s blocked, sniffly, cold-ridden nose just as he’d always–
“I don’t think it’ll take much,” Aramis said thickly. “Snf! I’ve been hovering on the brink all day.” He caught Porthos by the wrist, stopping the feather a mere hairsbreadth from its target. “I might—snf!—I might sneeze on you.”
Porthos cursed the stirring he felt in his trousers. “That’s alright,” he managed, hoping he didn’t sound quite as breathless as he felt. He tried to don an air of uncertainty; it wouldn’t do to seem to be enjoying it so much, for God’s sake. “I-if it was my cold first, that means I shouldn’t catch it again, right?”
“I should hope not bc I—snf!— I feel miserable and I’d feel even worse if I made you this miserable too.”
Porthos made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat and worked to push aside any thought that wasn’t of concern for Aramis. The man was freely admitting to feeling miserable, for God’s sake. Porthos could help him, would help him, and would not let any silliness get in the way of that. If this is what it took to alleviate the smallest bit of his brother’s discomfort, so be it. Porthos could deal with himself later.
Porthos brushed the feather delicately beneath the red, chapped skin of Aramis’s nose, and the man gave a full-body shiver at the contact, bundling deeper into the blanket tucked around his shoulders. He coughed lightly, his nose already beginning to twitch and flare, and Porthos knew the man had been right, it wouldn’t take much. He inserted the very tip into one of Aramis’s nostrils, gave it a slight wiggle, and that was all it took before the man’s breath snagged on a ragged inhale.
The dam finally broken, Aramis sneezed and sneezed, collapsing forward with each expulsion. Porthos could see the wetness hang in the air between them, could feel it land on his cheeks. Mess trailed down in ropy tendrils from Aramis’s nose and he cupped his hand in a futile and retrograde act of containment. “Heh’KMMPPFF! Hehh’RMPFFF!”
His hands shook with the fervor of his movement, and he was not successful at keeping them plastered to his face. As they broke away they brought with them a strand of mucus, clinging to his fingers, but still Aramis was far from finished. “Heh’ZDSHHH’ooo! Ihh’GSHHH’ooo! Hehh’ihh’INGSHHHH!” He sniffled almost convulsively between each sneeze, desperate for air. Porthos felt a mist on his cheeks and for a moment he was paralyzed.
Porthos wouldn’t have minded if the man kept releasing a fountainous spray upon him, but to preserve his friend’s dignity he cast around feverishly in the bedsheets. “Damn it, Aramis, where did you put the handkerchief?”
Aramis was pinching his reddened nose, his fingers glistening with the mess which had spilled onto them. Already his hair was wild and framed his face like an unholy halo. “Udder the pill-Pshhh’IEEWWW! Pillow? Heh’DSHHH!”
It was not under the pillow, nor tangled in the bedsheets, but had rather fallen to the floor halfway beneath the bed. Porthos scrambled to retrieve it as his friend released sneeze after sneeze of the wettest, fullest sort, as though they had been building in his head the whole day. They probably had been, the poor man. He started to cough, only for more sneezes to cut him off.
“Heh’RSHHH! Heh’TSHIEW! Oh, thagk you,” Aramis sighed as he hurriedly took the cloth from Porthos. Their hands brushed, and Porthos swallowed heavily at the dampness he felt on Aramis’s fingers. He watched as Aramis took a deep breath before blowing what must have been every bit of fluid in his nose into the handkerchief. Once he had finished, he folded the cloth, turned it over, and blew again, before seeking out a dry corner and nuzzling into it, massaging his nose between the folds and making stuffy noises of relief.
He lowered the cloth for a mere moment before his eyes clouded over again. “I’ve got… sdeeze! Ahh’TSCHOO! HEHH’TSHHH!” He blew his nose again and coughed throatily into the handkerchief, before his breath crescendoed into one final, massive sneeze. “Ahh’hihh’HITSCHHOOO!”
Aramis buried his nose in the folds again and simply held it there as if to let gravity drain away the rest, shutting his eyes in the utterly exhausted aftermath of such a display. Porthos was grateful for the man’s distraction, for he was finding it increasingly difficult to sit still.
“Oh, Porthos,” Aramis groaned in a positively sinful manner as he finally lowered the handkerchief. “Snf, snf! Snf!” The sneezing had clearly shifted the congestion in his head, but already he was beginning to sound all bunged up again. His cheeks and nose were flushed scarlet, his hair a tangled mess, his eyes streaming, and before Porthos could stop himself he squirmed and gave a minute groan of his own.
Then, to Porthos’s horror, Aramis smiled at him. “Am I wrong in saying that you appear to be enjoying this quite as much as Ju—my friend?”
At once, the room began to spin. Had he really been so obvious? Porthos’s breath quickened as thoughts and curses jumbled together in his mind, his hands beginning to tremble, his legs starting to bounce in agitation. He would have to leave and hope Aramis would forget this; he was not some oddball lover who–
Aramis’s hand was back on his thigh, stilling its motion. “Porthos, mon ami,” he said lowly, and Christ Almighty, every ounce of congestion was back weighing on his voice. Porthos could not look at him. “I will not judge you. I—heh’TSHIEW!”
As if on reflex, Porthos found his head snap up at the sound, and he damned himself. Aramis had twisted away to sneeze at his shoulder, but he turned back to Porthos with a bleary sniffle. He smiled at him again, and though his eyes were tired, they held nothing but gentleness. “What a man likes in bed is between him and the parties in it.”
Porthos could hardly believe what he was hearing, could hardly believe what had happened and what was continuing to happen. He spluttered, choking over thank you for not thinking I am a deviant, and I hope I haven’t made things odd between us, until all he could think to say was, “But I–we–we’re not in bed!”
Aramis gestured to the mattress on which they sat with a laugh. “In any case, I am glad someone is eh-enjoying my… my cold. Hhhh’KSHHHH’uhh!” The sneeze burst from him too quickly to be adequately covered by the handkerchief, and so Porthos saw a heap of wetness slide out from his nose before being sniffled back. “Snf! Guhhh… Because it certainly isn’t me.”
Aramis gave his nose a haphazard swipe with the cloth. “We could do some more if you’d like. There’s still a lot—a lot…” Aramis trailed off as though forgetting his train of thought, but the true reason for the pause became apparent when his breath gave an almighty hitch and his eyes flickered shut. “Hhhh’RSHHHH!” He sniffled thickly and gave a rueful little smile. “A lot left in there.”
Warmth pulled at the base of Porthos’s belly, but he dared not hope. “Are you sure?”
“After a day of being clogged up with no respite, sneezing like that was nothing short of divine.”
You can say that again, my friend. Porthos smiled, anticipation thrumming in his veins as he picked up the feather once more, the realization washing over him that he would get to see that divine display again, that he would be able to watch his friend’s beautiful sneezes crash forth and not need to look away for fear or propriety’s sake. It was dizzying, and Porthos felt as though he might burst with it.
Again, Aramis took him by the wrist. His eyes were alight, but serious. “Tell me how to make this more pleasurable for you.”
Porthos must have been dreaming. “P-Pardon me?”
“My l-friend, she liked it when I tried not to sneeze after she’d tickled me.”
Porthos’s voice, when he found it, was naught more than a rough whisper. “I—uh—I’d like that too.” If he ever found this woman, he would fall at her feet and kiss them.
“Noted,” Aramis said with a grin. “Snf!” He slid a knuckle beneath his nose. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold back given how congested I am, but on my honor as a Musketeer I will try.” He patted his breast proudly, and Porthos thought he might love the man for it. “What else?”
And if Porthos thought he loved the man before, he was surely infatuated by that comment. What else, the man asks? As if this weren’t already everything and more. The heady thrumming pulsated in his ears, and he could hardly feel his lips as they moved. “Tell me how you feel.”
Aramis blinked at him blankly, and for a moment Porthos feared all was lost. Stuttering, he pushed ahead. “Y-your symptoms. How miserable you feel.”
“Oh, you like it when I complain?” Aramis flashed him a sparkling, devilish grin, and in that instant Porthos saw what every woman must see in him. “You are in luck, dear Porthos, because I feel awful.” He frowned, shaping his features into a dramatic pout. “Every part of me feels run-down and achy—“
Porthos danced the feather ever so lightly across the man’s septum, marveling at how much it quivered at such slight contact.
“Snf! And sh-shivery. Snf! Like I have a-a f-fehhh… a fever.”
Porthos pressed his hand gently to Aramis’s warm forehead, his fingers stroking back the sweat-damp hair. “I think you do, poor Aramis.”
“Poor me, indeed!” Aramis cried hoarsely, breaking off into a few sharp coughs directed at his shoulder. Porthos’s fingers slid to Aramis’s jaw and he guided the man’s face back to him. Porthos ran the feather against his septum again. Aramis’s entire face twitched, but he soldiered on.
“My throat… my…” His expression went lax as the feather ghosted against his skin and his eyes fluttered to half mast. He gripped Porthos’s thigh, his fingers flexing and relaxing, his nails digging into the flesh. “Oh, I have to sn-sneeze. Hehhh—“
Were it not for the iron grip of his friend’s hand, Porthos felt as though he might float away into the ether. “Keep holding on,” he croaked, sounding almost as wretched as Aramis. “Keep talking.”
Aramis doggedly blinked away the tears which had begun to form in his eyes. “Oh, snf!” His nose was red, chapped, and quivering, and yet Porthos taunted it more with the feather. Aramis squirmed. “My throat feels like I’ve choked on my sword. My ear feels hot and full. Snf! Hehhh…. Oh, and my nose. Snf! How is it possible for it to be so stuffed up and… and so runny… HEHhhh… Snf! At the same time?”
And indeed, Porthos could see the evidence of such a predicament, a line of mucus dripping from one of Aramis’s nostrils no matter how forcefully his nose twitched and sniffled. It wouldn’t be long now, and so Porthos made the final gesture, inserting the feather into the snotty nostril inch by inch with a tantalizing slowness. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, his breath already beginning to hitch. Porthos wiggled it a couple times and then withdrew it at the same pace, drawing with it a thick rope of slime.
“Ohhhh…” Aramis was trembling, his breath shaking as he fought against his body’s urge with every ounce of strength. But he was no match, this Porthos could tell; he was going to lose this battle, and lose it quickly.
“I’b really…hehhh’EHHH...huhhhh—Snf, snf!” His voice was rapidly taking on a breathier and breathier quality with each word he spoke, and Porthos’s heart raced. “Really dot feelig—HESHHHOO! Ihh’TSSCHHH! Uhh… I’b dot feelig well at all, Porthos. Heh’TSHIEWWW! Oh…”
They were both done for now, Aramis lost in a violent haze of sneezes, even more vigorous now than the first, and Porthos swirling in his own private ecstasy. “Heh’ZDSHHH! KSHHH’uhh! Hehh…Ihhh..HEHISHHH! Hhhh’ITSCHHH! Snf! Huh’TSHHHH’ooo! Nggghhh…”
Aramis rubbed at his nose with the handkerchief as he sniffled and sneezed, letting it fall to the side with a sigh of irritation upon finding the cloth utterly soaked. Mucus dribbled down his lips no matter how many times he sniffled, and the sharp inhalations made him cough.
“Let it all out,” Porthos rasped, “you’ll feel better.”
“I deed–de-heh’HESHHH’oo! Snf! Oh, Porthos… Heh’KSHHHIEW! Snf, snf! A haddkerchief–snf–please! Ahh’TSHCHH!” It was true, Aramis’s face was a mess of fluid from his eyes to his chin. Porthos dug out a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and passed it to Aramis, before flopping back against the bed and tending to himself as Aramis blew and blew. All the while, Porthos lay on his back, panting, staring at the ceiling as visions of what he had just seen danced across his view.
“Ugh, I’b exhausted,” Aramis said upon finishing, before dropping abruptly onto Porthos’s chest, pillowing his head against his breast and curling up beside him. Porthos stroked the top of the man’s head, gratified when the man let out a hoarse and congested, yet content hum at the contact. He pressed a long kiss to the hot skin of Aramis’s forehead, suffusing it with the thank yous and I love yous and my heart breaks when you aren’t feeling wells that he could not put into words. Aramis turned and pressed his nose into Porthos’s shirt, drawing a long breath in before muffling his next sneeze into the fabric, though some still spilled over onto Porthos’s exposed skin where the shirt came undone at his chest. “Ehh’KMPFFF! Oh…” He sniffled and laid his head back down on Porthos’s chest, before murmuring tiredly, “You’d best hope you can’t catch this again.”
There’s something about someone else talking about someone being sick that has me feeling some type of way.
“Where’s A?”
“Oh they’re out sick today. Got a bad cold.”
“I’m afraid they’re down for the count…”
“Weren’t feeling well so they decided to stay home.”
And especially when YOU are the one who is saying it, it’s like you have special inside information or something? Like for me at least, it feels like you have this intimate knowledge about someone else. Or like other people come to you to ask because they know y’all hang out.
because my brain locked and loaded on they sound worse than it, how about:
“They sound worse than it is .. though I don’t know what that says, they sound terrible.”’
“I’ve seen worse, they have this awful cough though ..”
“They’ve had worse, but this just has me worried.”
“I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes”
[ let us not forget a healthy dose of angst with this scene also .. enemies to lovers ?? fallen out best friends ?? saying it or hearing it , i raise you … ]
“But i thought you just said they were fine?”
“Should we be worried?”
“I don’t care if you’ve seen worse, you don’t know them, this is worse.”
someone wracked by a huge sneeze when they’re already exhausted from sneezing so much, and the movement and noises takes energy they didn’t have out of them
@snezinnnngggg asked: "Okay, what about a scenario where Kim brings home the cold? I just love the idea of the person with the weaker immune system getting to finally be caretaker for once"
Here you are! Domestic lesbians for a couple hundred words, very very mild suggestion of nonsexual d/s (it's more about the Gender than anything else), only one sneeze tragically bc this is about the vibe, that sneeze is a teeny bit messy.
--
Of all the sounds Yasu had expected to come home to, her wife coughing wasn't one. Running water or sizzling food, maybe, or loud swearing, or even a fire alarm - yes, those sounds could have been predicted when they'd left for work this morning. But Yasu wasn't coughing, so it made no sense for Kim to be.
Yasu headed to the loungeroom and found Kim. Her eyes looked a little puffy around the edges, but it was hard to tell if her nose was red, with Kim's brown skin and Yasu's less-than-perfect vision. Her hair was down, tumbling down her back, and she'd changed out of the clothes she'd been wearing that morning into a comfortable sweater. When Kim saw her, her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth. "Oh, god," she said, "I'm sorry, babe, I think I've got a cold."
"What god?" said Yasu, from force of habit, as she pushed her shoulders back against the doorframe.
"Tlaloc," said Kim, at random, and coughed again, covering with only her hands. "Ugh."
"God of rain, huh," said Yasu, eyeing Kim's nose critically.
Kim chose that moment to sneeze, clear liquid forcing its way out of her nostrils as she did so. "htishew!"
Yasu rolled her sleeves up, mouth set with fatalistic determination. "Give me three minutes," they said. "Get into bed."
"Yes, sir," said Kim.
Yasu came into the bedroom three minutes later on the dot, a mask on her face, gloves on her hands, and carrying a tray with tissues, lemon tea, Kim's hairbrush, meds, and water. They placed it down on Kim's bedside table, then walked around the bed, picked up the small trashcan from their side of the bed, and carried it to Kim's.
Kim was lying down, but sat up to drink the tea. "Thank you so much, honey," she said, taking a sip.
"No honey in there," said Yasu, "just lemon."
Yasu raised a stern eyebrow in response.
Kim rolled her eyes, and laughed, and coughed. "You're very sour, darling," she said, pretending to reassure her.
In her own time, Kim put the tea back down, and settled down into her pillows. Without a word, Yasu began to brush her hair for her. Kim drifted off to sleep to the gentle sensations.
decided to induce with a stuffy nose. had snot streaming down my face in no time, each sneezes gushing snot out of my nose and down my face into my hands. the sneezes did feel amazing though.
something about someone being all dressed up in fancy business clothes, perhaps about to walk into a big important work meeting, and they've got a monster of a headcold. nose is completely plugged up with thick gooey snot yet it won't stop streaming from each nostril, like a waterfall. speaking of nostrils, theirs are a bright shade of red, a result from all the rubbing, wiping and blowing they've been doing all morning. their voice is very noticeably congested, their m's and n's sound like b's and d's, and every sentence is punctuated with a thick gurgly sniffle, or an attempt at least. and the tickle, oh god the tickle. the tickle in their nose that won't go away no matter how many times they've nearly sneezed. so many false starts. they've been in the bathroom stall with a rolled up piece of toilet paper up their nostrils, desperately trying to induce and get some sneezes out before this meeting, hoping to avoid sneezing in front of everyone, but unfortunately, still no luck. so they give their nose a good long blow and head into the board room. hopefully they can make it through without any sneezing, even though it would feel SO good to get rid of the tickle, and maybe some of the congestion in their nose, they really don't want to make a scene. fingers crossed.
Taking requests for very short snzfic (drabble-ish length)! Will write for most adult characters in:
Star Wars: Prequels (including Clone Wars), Originals, SWTOR (not confident on all SWTOR, but feel free to ask in case). I won't write incest, master/padawan or clone/clone.
while i certainly dig a sneeze that turns upward in pitch at the end like heH’TSHiew, there’s nothing quite like a sneeze that tapers off with tired breathy exasperation like hh-hehH’TCH’uhhh.
the -iew sneeze indicates that the person still has, like, a good amount of pep that their illness/allergies have not yet destroyed. by contrast, the gruff -uhhh sneeze tells you that this has been plaguing them all goddamn day and they are tired of it.
bonus points of course if it’s followed by a long dragging sniffle and an uneven guhh.
