sneeze fetish blog | 30 she/her | call me Mongoose! | avatar by @stop/sense | bisneezual all genders | minors DNI | sick people are cute i don't know why and it's not my fault
“I’m sneezing my way through these zoom appointments, it’s less than professional.”
A very unwell Cal Chowdhury & a very concerned Jackie O. -- done by (vanilla) artist @stop/sense! (Also here’s more commissioned art of my OCs by various amazing artists)
Fic Masterlist
[ in chronological order of Cal’s timeline ]
Observations from the Random Access Horny Memories of Ayush Pujari:
(Cal/Ayush) Ayush explores Cal through my favorite lens.
Observation I: Packing
Observation II: The Fall of the Persian Empire
Observation III: His Cold at the Party
Observation IV: The Flu Vaccine
Observation V: Navratri, Maybe
Kshama Karen
Cal’s father reflects on Cal & illness late one night when he’s home from Georgetown.
In Spite of Several Warnings
(Cal/Josephine) Cal ignores advice and gets a valuable lesson he apparently has to learn through experience.
The Final Final (Part I) (Part II)
(Cal/Josephine) Finals week during a particularly difficult semester of your Ph.D program is not a very convenient time to get very sick.
The Ethics of Fantasy
(Cal/Josephine) On the nature of love and friendship. Cal pines when a study session turns into caretaking.
Dust & His Dissertation
No one’s checked out Plato’s more niche works in ages and one should be quiet in a library.
Georgetown years drabbles:
a complete ruckus in the entryway (illness)
this is my least favorite library (allergy)
Never Tell a Morales You’re Sick
(Cal/Rafie) Rafael is unable to escape fussing from any direction.
un resfriado
(Cal/Rafie) Bilingual sneezing and fluffy hurt/comfort.
Not One Single Pneumonia
(Cal/Rafie) But yes one double pneumonia.
Cal/Rafie drabbles:
shower as tactic (allergy)
you okay papi? (illness)
nodnaturalisumb (illness)
solo un poco (illness)
I just want to touch you (Rafie) (illness)
Further Reading
(Cal/Scotty) A dust disaster and a power struggle of a book recommendation.
Mic Check
Cal & his TAs brainstorm how to avoid deafening your class when you might sneeze into a microphone.
you delicate creature
(Cal & Desmond) (not snz) A hike gone awry, an instance of vasovagal syncope, and an unexpected, unprepared caretaker.
Cal As Professor drabbles:
not a 7am question (Desmond) (illness)
You really gotta stop sneezing in this CVS (illness)
frailshivers’ incredible commission based on that ^
Answered asks re: OCs
For fanfiction and no specified character stuff I’ve done my writing tag is mongoose writes sometimes
A couple other Cal stories on my vanilla AO3
I do take prompts if they’re kinda vague and if you don’t mind me possibly taking eons to fill them! Also if you ever ever have questions or curiosities about any of my characters please feel free to send me an ask or message me — I write lots of things I won’t post on here for a long time and a lot of things I won’t post here at all due to being either vanilla or completely substanceless indulgence, but I’m happy to share and chatting about Cal is my favorite thing ever.
Below the cut is an amazing rendition @stop/sense did of the artbreeder I made for Cal
In light of evilfloralfoolery recommending @sickromancer and @xghostlightx, I’m adding to the list of overlooked but very-deserving-of-attention writers:
@gay-for-the-snz, whose characters I am in love with and whose insight and depth is beautiful. His profound sense of empathy and morality is self-evident even in characters with questionable morals.
@littlekatleaf, who has transformed the world of Overwatch into something more closely resembling OCs, that can easily be read as such. They’re fantastic at doing sexual, complicated, and sexually complicated.
@seasnz, whose standout prose I envy, whose style is fresh and unique and effortless and somehow feels so established despite her being 18 years old (wtf??)
& on the blue forum, starsoup has written two fics I would sooner describe as novellas, one of which I shared with a vanilla friend because it’s transcendental (and by the way they loved it so much that we held a thirty minute phone conversation that was basically just a gushy book club).
Author’s comments: Set in a small town in the American Bible Belt. To say I’m smitten with Flora and Father Luc is a vast understatement. I adored every second of writing this and found it easier to get into their heads than most. I think Flora may end up being my first snz kinkster, but we shall see. Also, I effing love the ending to this one, I won’t lie, and I can assure you a follow-up story is on the docket. I hope you enjoy this pair as much as I do.
With it’s variations, probably my favourite fever phrase. Not “burning up” or anything, but just a little too warm, perhaps a bit of temperature. It’s so very soft, and while not dramatic at all, it tells something about the caretaker, how for them something that should be insignificant - the sick character being perhaps a little too warm - is worth knowing, worth noting.
And in a way it’s at the very heart of the fetish for me - one doesn’t need to be seriously ill to deserve comfort and care. A little pitiful is enough to tug at the heartstrings of the caretaker, because they do care, in a very soft, even a bit embarrassing way.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a dramatic fever, but the little too warm always takes the first place.
Continuing a joke from a year old drabble. Honestly sometimes I just need to watch Cal be sneezy and a professor simultaneously.
- — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - —
He’s taken measures to prepare, one of which is sixteen ounces of steaming tea in a reusable cup, another is a ream of tissues in his blazer pocket. It’s visible on him still, the last vestiges of his cold, but only if one were to really look through the perky professionalism, the genuine joy he takes in lecturing. Optimism and excitement do a pretty good job of obscuring the physical details.
But they're there if you look. The skin around his nose bears still the traces of frustration from when he couldn’t help but to swipe or to scratch—a bitter rouge that has yet to fully forgive him his mistreatment. He's technically well rested, but his dark circles are darker than usual, the creases below his eyes more pronounced. Leftover sniffles are easily provoked, so he’s drinking this particular cup of tea as slowly as possible.
He starts the lecture with his usual, “Gooooooood… morning!” wherein the ‘Good,’ is drawn out as long as students are still talking, and the ‘morning’ is an inflection change to cheekiness.
“I hope you all had a nice little break Monday. Apologies if my voice sounds kinda funny—I’m still getting over this cold. That was the main reason I canceled class actually. I didn’t feel too bad, but I sounded ridiculous. My partner was making fun of me for being unable to say…” He clicks a button on a very small remote controlling the projector on the ceiling, and the opening slide of his lecture appears against the massive white wall behind him:
Moral Non-Naturalism, it says.
“Wayyy too many nasal consonants in this particular lecture topic. Didn’t feel like making you all listen to seventy-five minutes of me talking about ‘boral dod-daturalism.’”
Cal pauses while students laugh, and starts again with a smile that’s spread further. “I’m still a liiittle bit congested but I’m gonna do my best to enunciate through it. Moral non-naturalism. Ooh that was pretty good! Way better than yesterday, okay here we go.”
A few minutes into the lecture before he starts to feel like he wants to sneeze, distinguishing between naturalism and reductionism with every intention of keeping it together as long as he can, but the gymnastics of his eyebrows are theatrical enough to be seen from any seat, inconveniently expressive and never affording him anything less than complete transparency. A sudden hike, an inward furrow—he knows he couldn’t hide it even if he wanted to, so Cal will have to be transparent as well.
A thought concludes but doesn’t transition. Instead it trails off as he brings a fist under his nose, and winces against a ticklish breath, but the feeling fades after a moment and he sighs a grateful exhale. “Sorry, thought I was about to sneeze for a second there. That wouldn’t have been good with this thing,” he says, indicating the sound-sensitive lav mic clipped to his shirt collar. “Blow out the speakers, snf! Deafen you guys.”
Cal generally tries not to laugh at his own jokes, but sometimes when they go over well he can’t resist joining in with a quick chuckle. He is particularly fond of this Monday/Wednesday class this semester. There’s been an especially joke-receptive energy here since day one, and it gives him the freedom to get sillier with them.
Only about a paragraph and a half further before the feeling is plaguing him again—a distracting, tickly electricity he knows is rearranging his features into a ridiculous expression somewhere between frustration and dismay.
“What Moore is saying is that any definition of morality put in terms of some natural property is a failure, because naht…”
A question, silently posed by a single twitch of nostrils, meets his executive decision that no he’s good it’s under control keep going, but his even cadence quickly becomes anything but—his voice wavering a little as he speaks, words inflating and floating away from him as he loses his grip on a sentence.
“Because natural properties—rightness, goodness, pleasurableness, et cetera—are halways liable to an oh-hoh—an open question and hokay actually I amabouttosneeze-excuseme—!”
He utters this last part in a speedy, rising panic and hurries to pull the mic from his collar and leave it dangling by the cord—a gasping breath is the last thing it relays before there’s a soft thud of static as it settles farther down his shirt, and Cal throws an arm over his face and lurches into his elbow with such vigor that he stumbles a few steps sideways with the entropy of it.
“DJIISSHHH’hu! Hh-! HehhdJESSHHhue!”
Harsh and percussive and probably still audible even without the assistance of the sound system, and there’s a chorus of bless yous after them both. It’s not the first time he’s been blessed by a class of three hundred and it won’t be the last, but it never fails to find him extremely touched by this synchronized demonstration of their attention and kindness.
“Hoo, thank you thank you,” he says when he picks up the dangling mic, about to clip it back into place when his breath falters (“uh-hih-?”) and his grip on his shirt collar does too, in favor of signaling his class with a shake of his head and the flash of a raised finger and then holding himself in place while he collapses into the other arm to muffle another exclamation.
“Huh-JEHHSHHhoo!”
More chorused blessings afterwards as he emerges from his sleeve with only a hint of sheepishness and a rake of fingers through his hair to untousle the locks he’s tousled loose.
“Thank you!” he says again, committing to clipping the mic back on this time. “I think I’m dwindling down to the final sneezes of this cuh— of this cold, and I’m… I’m trying not to do that agaih-hin, um…” A couple of blinks as he wills himself not to, but it’s on the horizon and blinding him into a forced squint, and that fist-pressed-under-the-nose thing rarely actually works for longer than a few seconds, after which Cal can only shake his head again with a guilty smile and append his sentence; “and failing, sorryonemoretime—”
He wastes too much time with this warning to have a chance to take the mic back off again, so all he can do is put his hand over it, which does quiet him somewhat, in conjunction with burying his nose into the now somewhat dampened fabric of his blazer sleeve—to conspire anew with secret droplets hidden within the weaves of houndstooth—though a desperate vocalization still finds its way through the speakers.
“HAH-DZZIISSSHhyue!”
It seems to get funnier every time, to both Cal and his class, but he does feel his cheeks warm when he hears himself echo through the lecture hall. “Wow excuse me, I am so sorry,” he laughs. “Thank you for your blessings, and your patience. I’m definitely—snff!—I’m almost definitely done now.” A tissue is fished from his pocket and politely employed in a casual swipe beneath his nostrils, resisting how impolitely he’d love to perform this action and issuing a couple of unavoidable, staticky sniffles.
“Now, snffh! back to non-naturalism… oh, uh-oh, that sounds not so great again, hang on,” he says, sniffling sharply and clearing his throat, recalibrating to try again in earnest. “Moral non-nat-goddamnit.”
They laugh, he laughs.
“Moore’s theory is sometimes also referred to as intuitionism… but that’s not much better is it?” he asks, with a chuckle that crackles pointedly toward a cough.
He probably could have used another day to recover, but this won’t set him back any. Cal isn’t the medical kind of doctor, but he has a personal theory that returning to his life, the way it usually is, lends itself to speedier recovery. Maybe it’s because he’s an extrovert, or, admittedly, a little bit addicted to his work. Maybe it’s because he’s fortunate enough to do something he loves for a living. All he knows is that the energy of being here, with his class and their kind patience and their good-natured laughter, has curative properties of its own.
“Okay I think what I might do is give you all a five minute break, snffh! while I go blow my nose a bunch of times or something to try to remedy this. If that doesn’t work, unfortunately you’re just gonna have to listen to a very stuffy lecture—as in congested, I mean! Stuffy as in congested, not as in boring.”
I'm late on the 5 sentence prompts, but if you're still taking them, a suggestion for Joseph:
"If it were up to him, this would be the last place on the planet he would choose to let his sinuses get the better of him."
It is NEVER too late for this, I am always taking them
⁂
If it were up to him, this would be the last place on the planet he would choose to let his sinuses get the better of him. If he truly had his druthers, they would never get the best of him, but especially not while he is seated on a plane cramped between two people who seem to have made it their mission in life to be as obtrusive as possible in the way they are sitting. The withering glances from the woman on the aisle started before they even took off, but by the third hour into the flight, he has graduated from "man on plane" to the ever loathed "sick man on plane", and the distinction is quite clear. He hasn't received a single blessing in the last hour and a half, once it became clear that the cabin pressure was not to blame and that this would be an ongoing affair for the next several hours they were all stuck together.
He ducks into the folds of a handful of scratchy, flimsy brown paper napkins the hostess offered him as she passed by last--though they're long since past the point of being much use now, whether that be for attempting to contain misery or volume--with an utterly wretched "hH'DDJJZH'ue!" that turns heads. Naturally he was a miser and didn't bring a carry-on, and naturally anything that might mitigate his miserable state is locked in the baggage hold, so he is resigned to his fate of snuffling behind the inadequate cover of his napkins unless someone takes pity enough to dig out a packet of tissues.
Well! it took a bit longer than expected, but finally this is finished! make sure to check out the exquisite art @kazewohiita did for this! part one can be found here! slight implied mess, nothing graphic
⁂
It was Friday morning when Elliott rapped lightly on the door to Florence's room, a bag tucked gingerly beneath his arm, and a tray balanced precariously against his chest to support it. "Florence, my friend? I'm going to open the door."
The woman he sought was sitting in her bed in naught but her suit jacket and a pair of ill fitting trousers, a stack of pillows around her in enough quantity to indicate no amount of them had brought her any comfort. Her hair was a wild mass of curls that encroached on her face and settled around her shoulders, and the look she gave him was one of pure venom. "You are not," she sniffed sharply, "my friend today."
His smile was serene in the face of her remark. "Oh, come now, you don't mean that. I don't blame you for being a bit irritable, though, I understand it's quite an uncomfortable ordeal, this cold you've caught."
She huffed a mirthless laugh, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to face him more fully. "Caught? No, was given more like! And then you invite yourself here into my room, as if you own it. Don't you know it's inappropriate to see a lady with her hair down?"
"I was given permission by your landlady, of course, I'd never invite myself where someone hadn't given me any semblance of permission. She's worried about you, and it's no wonder why. I was told you haven't left your room since Wednesday evening, even to take your meals. Speaking of..." He cautiously set down the tray he had been sent up with, and glanced between the contents and his companion in hopes they were suitably enticing to soothe her ire and coax her into some sustenance.
"...what is it?" Her eyes lingered briefly on the little covered plate, steam still rising from beneath the tea towel. She hadn't eaten much of anything aside from the few items she kept tucked away in a drawer for times when she didn't want to impose on her landlady, or came in long after meals had been put away and the gas lamps turned low.
"She made buñuelos, and I don't know about you, my dear, but I think they sound delectable. If I can't convince you to partake--and I know you're not the sort who's easily persuaded--I may just eat them myself." Partly it was for show, but partly he found the smell of them quite appealing, and he couldn't deny that he was a bit peckish.
Oh, was that how it was, then? She lifted the towel and shoved one indelicately into her mouth. "I haven't eaten since yesterday, although I wouldn't know it by my appetite. I'll eat, but only because I know she won't let you leave until you've given her word that I accepted some of her food. She worries too much, that woman. I'm a grown adult, I had a child, I'm not one myself in need of fussing over." The statement was directed as much at him as it was about her landlady--they were cut from the same cloth, she mused. "What else did you bring?"
"Ah, well, I come bearing gifts, of course. First, and most importantly, I've brought you this." With a flourish, Elliott bowed deeply and handed over Florence's handkerchief, the soft white fabric freshly laundered and still smelling faintly of the soap he used to wash. "I appreciate you letting me borrow it, and I had a--well, I found myself rather certain that you would be in need of it, and my suspicions were confirmed when I received word that you were ill and hadn't been receiving guests, or going out."
"It may shock you to learn that those who are ill often choose to stay in rather than going out and giving their illness to others." Now that she was sitting up, he was able to get a better look at her, and to appreciate the signs of it on her face. Her hair was never quite neat, but now it was in wild disarray, looking like she hadn't bothered to attempt to comb through it since he'd seen her last, and her eyes were rather heavy and rimmed in a faint purple. Most noticeable, however, was her nose. The layer of freckles that covered her head to toe was thickest along her cheeks and nose and over the tops of her shoulders and upper arms--and yet the attention she had been paying to her nose had rendered them practically invisible, blending into the pink blush that crept from her nostrils up the bridge.
She was still a breathtaking specimen, even with a cold that had slackened her grooming routine and energy. Were he the sort of gentleman to take up with the fairer sex, he had little doubt that she would be someone he found quite ravishing. Even sexually inverted as he was, he was able to appreciate her beauty, her personality, her boldness; she was striking in all aspects, and he knew she had no shortage of suitors calling upon her.
"Look at me." Her fingers locked around his wrist, snapping him out of his thoughts and dragging him so he stood bent enough they were nearly nose to freckled nose. "Do you see that I'm suffering?" Her breath smelled faintly of cough pastilles, warm and minty. "I'm suffering because of you. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And do you know, Elliott, what the worst part of this cold is?"
"No."
"I have had to sneeze desperately, since I first contracted this wretched cold from you."
"Oh. Well, er, yes, I'm well acquainted with the feeling. Of needing to sneeze, that is."
"Are you well acquainted with needing to, and being unable?"
"I don't think so, no. You've known me long enough to know that, er, not sneezing isn't often an issue for me."
She released her grip with a little huff, that soon morphed into a fit of chesty coughs. "I do know that. I've never found myself envious of it until now." One bare foot nudged at his leg to push him a bit and ensure she retained his attention, before she drew her own legs back up on the bed. "You know you owe me a modicum of comfort, yes?"
"Of course! That's why I'm here, actually--to check on you, I mean, and to take care of you. I'm no doctor, of course, but I've plenty of experience in being ill, and I've tried a fair number of remedies in my time--be cautious of mentioning folk remedies at the Docks, my crew mates have used me to test every one you could ever dream up, to prove to one another who's correct and most effective and what have you." In the privacy of her rooms, Elliott found himself quite comfortable to gesture emphatically as he spoke, not needing to attempt to keep himself or his constant need for motion palatable to the masses.
"You give them plenty of opportunity. Speaking of...sit down. I think I know how you can repay me for putting me into this situation in the first place." He sat himself at the foot of her bed, mindful to give her space to be comfortable in her own sheets.
"Anything I can do for you, just name it. You have my word as a gentleman and as your friend that if it's within my means, I'll procure or provide it for you."
Florence eyed him with a faint smile of approval and satisfaction, reveling ever so slightly in how eager he was to please. It made requesting--or commanding--things of him much simpler than if he were of a more non-genial sort. "Make me sneeze."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. It wasn't a request. You said you would do what you could for me, and this is no insurmountable task. I want relief from this damned cold, and you're going to figure out how to provide it for me. After all," she wrinkled her nose in a mixture of amusement and irritation, "I'm consulting an expert. Call upon your experience, and we'll see if you earn my forgiveness."
If there was a way to hide his surprise, he didn't know it. The request wasn't necessarily an odd one--and Lord knew he had asked stranger things of others before--yet though it sat within his area of so-called expertise, he wasn't sure how, precisely, to go about this.
"Why don't you, er, get comfortable, and I'll see what I can do." He fussed with moving things about, clearing off the bedside table enough to carefully set something down--a little vase, brimming with fresh blossoms from the Surface. "These are so pretty--the name escapes me, but they used to grow in the area I grew up in. I don't suppose you--well, of course I know you haven't been to Virginia--but I don't suppose you've ever seen them before, at least? Captain Addington has a good working relationship with the other vessels--and you need to, of course, in the shipping business--but one of them occasionally makes trips through the Canal and brings back things from the Surface, and I was able to strike quite a nice bargain with her captain about purchasing a quantity of these before the rest of them were all parceled off and sold through the different costermongers and the like."
Brilliantly blue eyes were focused on him, on the way he moved and arranged them so carefully in the ugliest vase she'd ever seen. "Use those."
"Pardon?" He glanced down at them, eyeing the familiar blossoms with something approaching suspicion. "And...do what with them?"
"That's not my concern to figure out."
"Then why do you tease me? Surely you've some idea, or you wouldn't have found it fit to suggest them."
"I'm not going to start this debate with you again."
An exasperated laugh and one hand released the vase enough to point rather accusingly at her as the pieces click into place in his mind. "Ohhh, no. No. We have already been quite clear on this topic, and you know where I stand. I'm not going to--actually, perhaps I will! Perhaps I will put this whole matter to bed right now for you." A single flower was plucked from the bouquet, petals soft and ruffled like lace. "If hay-fever is real--and you know how I feel--surely I, in all of my sensitivity, would prove it, yes?"
He lifted the blossom to his nose and took a deep inhale, the scent pleasant and light and deeply nostalgic. It smelled of the sky, and the sun, and the wind, and the rain. It smelled of home. "Mmm, lovely. And there we are, hm? Nothing. Not even a whisper of a sniffle. Not so much as a hint of hay-fever, or the rose cold, or rose catarrh, or any other name they've deigned to call it. And besides," he gestured emphatically with the flower towards the window, "if that is the affliction you think I suffer from, where, pray tell, is the hay to cause it?"
"I'm certain your head is stuffed with hay and it's left you with no room for any sense." A breathless and ineffective snuffle saw her motioning broadly to the bed beside her legs, a clear invitation--no, he thought, a command--to be seated as well. "If you're unwilling to do what I asked, then you are more than welcome to take your sympathies and conclusions with you when you leave."
"I never said that I was unwilling. I merely said I don't know if you'll receive the outcome you're wishing for." He sat down beside her, carefully hooking the heels of his boots against the bedframe enough to ensure the lap he bashfully offered was stable. "Why don't you, ah, just rest your head here? I'll see what I can do for you."
His concern for propriety might have been charming in a boyish manner were she not so eager to get things moving. One of the plethora of pillows she had stacked on the bed moved to adorn his legs so she might have something to rest on, a mass of fire bright curls fanning out around her when she made use of it. "I'm ready. More than ready, even. Don't hesitate like I know you'll wish to--for once, don't let your nerves dominate you."
"I--! Er, right, of course! I'll just...here we are, then. Humor me as a man of frail nerves; close your eyes, won't you?" She opened her mouth to protest, seemed to think better of it, and closed her eyes with a huff to indicate her displeasure. "Thank you. Now...here we go, hm?"
Cautiously, the flower was brought to her nose, petals grazing the freckled skin. Instinctively she scrunched it, her brow furrowing at the sensation. A sharp sniff of irritation saw the furrow deepen further, her mouth pressed into a thin line. "It--snff!--tickles."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No. No, I...hh-? Hih--!" For a few painful seconds she hung on the edge, nostrils flared in anticipation before her voice rose sharply. "Hh...'chu!" The force wasn't enough to raise her from her position, the sound of it so delicate and shrill that he could scarcely believe it came from her.
"Bless you, Florence!" Bemusement was audible in his voice, his own brows pinched together. "I didn't expect it to be so--"
"Don't."
"--dainty." He cowed under the venomous look she gave him, blush coloring his cheeks. "It's just--you're so--"
"If you want to keep your hand, I suggest you stop speaking and--snff!--return to what you were doing." Only once she was certain he had received her message plainly as if it was printed in black and white did she close her eyes and settle in once again.
The flower alighted on her nose once again, caressing nostrils that flared expectantly and depositing a fine yellow dust along them. She couldn't smell it, but she could feel the effect beginning to take hold; a slow, crawling tickle working its way through her sinuses and igniting the lingering itch that hadn't left her since she caught cold. Chapped lips parted with a slight gasp as an eager petal shook itself loose and teased at nasal walls growing more sensitive with each passing second.
A faltering breath, then a second sharp gasp that rose decidedly in pitch. "Hh--h'Tchu!" This one was only slightly more forceful than its predecessor, but he could see by the way pollen-kissed nostrils flared that she wasn't finished. "hH'TSChu! hh--hIH-!"
"Florence, are you--"
"TSSCHyuu!" Petals dropped from the flower as she turned away from him, propping herself up on one elbow and finally cupping one hand in front of herself to contain what she realized was going to be an ongoing effort. The cover was inadequate--Elliott could see the snarl as she drew another shaking breath--and conspicuously avoided paying attention to the way her chest heaved with it. "Hh--h'GSCHyuu! 'GSCHyue! Bloody H--hih-! hH'TSHHyuu!"
Dear Lord! With the expedience of a snail, it occurred to him that the poor woman was in the grips of a rather fierce fit--and fierce it was! He could scarcely believe how deeply the irritation was setting in such a short time, the sound harsh and growled and so utterly desperate it made him ache in sympathy--and it was being contained, woefully inadequately, in the palm of her hand. "Here--here!" His handkerchief had scarcely touched her fingers before she snatched it away from him and turned away to put her back fully to him.
She practically moaned through the next gasp, before doubling over with another wrenching sneeze that shook the halo of curls that encroached on her face. "hH'HGSSHhyuu!" A choked out "God" was the best she could get out before she blew her nose with such gusto that it brought color to his cheeks behind her to hear. She didn't care for his modesty, his deep shyness regarding propriety and what he should or shouldn't be privy to--if he wanted to be mortified by the sound--for she didn't give him the sight--of her abusing the cotton just as much as the flowers had abused her nose, that was his prerogative.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! God bless you, Florence!" A hesitant hand rested on her back, and he realized she was panting with the effort expended. "Are you--?"
"Finished?" She knuckled hard at nostrils that still threatened to betray her. "I may be, for the moment." Exhaustion crept into her voice beneath the liquidy edge it had gained, and she laid back dramatically to lean her weight against his side.
"I do hope this means I've been forgiven..."
A brow raised as she swiped roughly at her nose. "If you leave the bouquet behind...I will consider your debt repaid."
"Leave it--if it produced that effect, what on Earth makes you think you want it to remain in here with you?"
"Elliott," her shoulders tugged up with the effort of a snuffle that succeeded in precious little but illustrating his point, "I have needed to sneeze for two days. I am going to do more than my fair share of it before these die and I am left with nothing but that feeling that never comes to fruition. You already paid for them, and more importantly than that, you have already given them to me. If I wanted to swallow them whole like a snake, that would not be any of your concern."
"Well...yes, I suppose you're right. I just--well, you'll have to keep my blessings close at hand until these fade and you have to dispose of them." He fiddled with the ring he wore to keep his hands occupied, lest they attempt to comb back some of the tresses that rested against her flushed cheeks. "Bless you, many times over, my friend."
A wry smile played on her lips as she ran a fingertip over the remaining petals of the flower he had abandoned for her. "I'll be needing them."
He’s slow to recover from the last sneeze, heavy and enervating, and spends several dense, clouded moments staring blankly at the annal he’s failing to review; it’s all blur and aftermath. He rubs his eyes, then his nose, against the pulsing dull throb and unquieted, inexorable itch, and turns the page with tired resignation, a sigh, and another damp sniffle.
Nothing’s getting done, nothing’s getting better.
Is it maudlin to wish she was here? Probably.
So be it, then.
He sniffles again, irritated at both these endless ridiculous symptoms and himself in general, and flips back and forth through several pages apathetically.
Ugh. Where was I?
He doesn’t know, barely cares, and his steadily worsening headcold brings a sinus-deep insistence rising resurgent and imminent. His breath catches, sharp and sharper again, anticipant, needful. Unstoppable. With desperate gasp, he surrenders to it.
“hh-ahHH… hh-HAAHTSCHuu! HuhTSSCHHuu! *SNF!*”
Timestilled moments, his brow creased in expectation as nothing is sated, nothing relieved, and…
“Ahh-HEHTSHhuu!”
“Bless you, sweetheart.”
He starts a little at this immensely welcome unexpectedness, her gentle voice behind him; she laughs lightly and touches a soft kiss to the top of his head, places a warmly aromatic steaming cup of tea beside him on the desk with an accompanying shoulder caress.
“Lavender, chamomile and honey.”
With a muffled thank you, excuse me from under a hastily retrieved requirement of tissues, he glances up at his beloved in a relief felt souldeep, his smile at her presence obscured for the moment but none the less genuine for it. He scrubs a firm, insistent hand under his nose and sniffles with force.
“I, um... *snf!* Forgive me. I thought you’d not be home for hours yet.”
“Mm, yeah, I know,” she confirms as she stands behind him at the desk, leaning over to drape her arms around his neck. “Guess I wasn’t in the mood for a party.” A finger traces a gentle trail through his hair. “How are you doing?”
“Ah, love.” He leans back into the sanctuary of her touch and closes his eyes; she's here, all is right with the world, and his voice is a heartfelt murmur of honesty that not even thickening congestion can detract from.
Whoops, my hand slipped. If you thought Caspian had a problem with cold weather, you've never Blair actually get sick from it. Because he will. For reasons.
______________
No chairs? Fuck it.
Blair sits on the floor and leans against the wall, tipping his head back with a sigh. Goddamn this fucking headache. Was it sinus pressure or some other kind of bullshit?
The sudden change in the weather during the overnight drive had done a number on him. Cold and damp so wasn't his thing.
Caspian doesn't look much better with two scarves wrapped around his neck and that ridiculous mane of curly hair blowing everywhere.
"This is bullshit." Miami rubs his hands together in a futile effort for friction. "We can't play in this. I can't feel my goddamn fingers."
"They're supposed to get stage heaters." Caspian rolls his eyes. "Whatever good that'll do."
"It won't." Blair rubs his nose with the back of his hand and instantly regrets it. "They need tarps on the sides, not just that bullshit stage cover."
"Well, somebody needs to fix this shit and let us in the goddamn building." Miami crosses his arms and the leather of his jacket creaks. "I ain't freezing my dick off for this."
Caspian disappears somewhere and returns shortly after, two cups of coffee and one cup of tea held precariously between his hands. “Don’t know how the concession dude is handling it out here.” He passes one off to Miami and sinks down beside Blair with the other. "I guessed black."
Blair offers him a hint of a smirk. “What, I don't look like cream and sugar?"
"Nah, that's Miami." Caspian winks and takes a sip of tea.
"I could pour this down your pants," Miami says. "Bet you'd be warm then."
Caspian laughs as Miami sits down on the other side of Blair and nudges his boot with his own. "We've played in worse."
"Yeah, but I was 25 and you were a kid." Blair rubs at one side of his nose with a crooked finger and sniffles. "Fuck. I'm not built for this shit."
The icy cold is like a thousand needles bristling within his sinuses. He sets the coffee down and ducks into the crook of his elbow with a shuddering "hhh–RIISSCHuuh! IkkgSCCHu!"
"Saúde," Miami says and Caspian follows suit with the English version on the other side of him.
"Hmn. Don't bother. I'm not fucking d-uuuhhh–" Blair pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before his breath does the insane hitch and catch thing. "Heehh-hhiihh-hhh. . .! Hkg'RISSSCCHHiiuh! Hhh'nKGISSCH!"
He produces a packet of tissues from who-the-fuck-knows-where and sets it on the edge of Blair's knee with such ginger, delicate precision that Blair laughs.
"It's okay, blondie." He pats Caspian on the shoulder in a rough, heavy-handed way. "We're good."
But he does open the packet of tissues and dab at his nose just the same.
"Cold gets you, too, huh." Caspian sniffles for emphasis and pulls the scarf tighter around his neck.
"Yeah." Blair grumbles. "Puts out my damn fire."
"Like a real dragon." Caspian winks and Blair offers him a hint of smile.
Blair holds up his right hand like a claw. "Rarr,” he says with the most deadpan voice ever.
That gets the Blond Wonder laughing, which wasn't really saying much. The singer laughs at most everything. Well, that is until the cold has its way with him, too.
Unlike Blair, there is only a short, sharp gasp before Caspian steeples his hands over his nose and turns away.
"-h'tsschu! Tsschu! Tsschhiu!" Caspian drops his hands and tosses his hair away from his face. "'Scuse me. Surprised it took me that long."
"Okay, fuck this." Miami downs the last of his coffee and pulls himself up off the concrete. "Can't have half the band sneezing their asses off because of this shit."
But he does pause to crouch down in front of Caspian and murmur something in his ear, something that makes the singer blush and laugh in a quiet, almost nervous way.
Blair arches an eyebrow. “Never seen anybody make Miami’s dick that hard.”
If he thought Caspian was blushing before, now he’s far beyond a splash of warmth against that golden skin. He’s full-on medieval maiden level now.
“Oh, uh.” Caspian laughs, tosses his hair over his shoulder with one hand. “Shut up, you.”
“Uh huh.” Blair pulls his packet of cigarettes out of his back pocket. “Better go chase him. That’s what he wants.”
“He does not,” Caspian says.
“He does.” Blair lights one up and takes a long drag. “Wind’s blowing your way, anyway. Fuck off before you breathe this shit in. Miami’s gonna be extra hard, if you smell like smoke.”
“Oh my gods, what-evveer.” Caspian waves him off.
And there’s that mother fucking tickle again. Urgent, burning, furiously escalating bullshit.
He cringes against a knuckled finger, winces with a show of teeth. "GoddaaahhhmmmiittuuhhRIISSSHH–UUH! –hkkgISSCHU! IKGGSCCHT! –RIIIEESSCHHU!"
The look Caspian gives him is something between exasperated and empathetic, complete with dramatic rolling of the eyes. “You need to go inside, too.” He points to a trailer in the distance. “I’ve just been told via text that that’s our green room.”
Blair exhales a cloud of smoke in the opposite direction. “I’m fucking thrilled.”
“Same,” Caspian says. “I’m such a huge mega star, obviously.” He adjusts one of his scarves and gestures towards the makeshift building again. “Now, go.”
That does make Blair chuckle. “Fine.” He heaves himself to feet, dusts off his jeans, and remembers the packet of tissues that probably slid off his leg when he stood up.
They’re on the ground, alright . . . on top of a neatly folded sea green scarf. And Caspian is nowhere to be seen. Funny, he hadn’t even seen the other man walk away.
Other “man.” Yeah, right.
Blair shakes his head. But he takes the scarf, anyway.
So, here's some crap I wrote about the new guy. I did three short bits, one from each guy's point of view. It's not meant to be cohesive . . . it's just bits and pieces of testing out the feel and dynamics of things. I don't usually post these, but I like him and I wanted to share.
There's no sneeze in the first one or the third one, so if you're looking for a fuckton of fetish fodder, I'm not there yet. But it's in the second one.
Hope you'll give it a read just the same.
_____________________________
TEST ONE: MIAMI POV
"Miami. . . "
Knocking on the bedroom door. Seriously? Why didn't he just come inside? It's not like they weren't fucking. . .
"Miami? Are . . . you awake?"
More knocking. Jesus fucking Christ.
He rolls onto his back with a grumble. "Fuck, Cas. Just come the hell in, what the fuck."
A head full of golden curls peeks around the edge of the door frame. "Well, you said not to wake you up."
"I did?" Miami scratches his head, further ruffling his hot mess of an excuse for hair. "Must have been my answering machine."
Caspian tilts his head. "Huh?"
"Nevermind." Miami motions for him to come inside.
Caspian kind of tip-toe walks in and sits on the edge of the bed, like he's worried Miami might bite him in the ass or something.
Not unless it's foreplay. . .
"Well?"
The other man blinks and shakes his head. "Ah, sorry. I was totally staring at your naked. . . everything."
Miami chuckles. "Sorry I'm too hot for you, lorienho."
"Whatever." Caspian rolls his eyes, but doesn't mean it. "Anyway, we've got a problem. A big one." He runs a hand through his profusion of curls, expression turning serious. "Collen just walked."
Aaand now Miami is really fucking awake. "Like quit walked?"
Caspian nods. "Like gone. Took his gear, took his stuff, everything."
"That mother fucker." Miami shoves a hand through his hair, an echo of Caspian's nervous habit. "So, you're telling me we have no fucking bass player tomorrow."
"Yep." Caspian makes a hand gesture that is something between frustrated and lost. "We're gonna have to cancel. People are gonna be pissed, man."
"The fuck we are." Miami snatches his phone from the nightstand.
"Dude." Caspian huffs a sigh. "If you're looking for a sub, I've called literally everyone that we know in LA and we're totally screwed."
Miami taps on his contacts. "LA is bullshit. You want a bassist or a studio jockey that thinks he's a bassist?"
“I mean, obviously the first one. But, who-”
Miami waves him off as he pulls up the text window. “Shut up a minute so I can think.” When Caspian looks more than a little indignant, he smirks. “I can give you something to put in your mouth, if you want.”
“Oh my gods, bye.”
Caspian hops off the bed and pretends like he’s going to leave, but he isn’t going anywhere. Too damn nosy for that. And too interested in Miami’s naked body. Heh.
The notification bell on the phone dings and Miami glances at it before tossing it back onto the nightstand. “There. One bass player. Done.”
“Now, wait a minute.” Caspian plants his hands on hips. “You know this is my band, right? Think maybe you should have run it by me first?”
Miami sprawls chest down across the top of the duvet, naked as hell and not giving one single fuck. “Did anyone run it by you when they hired me?”
Caspian snorts. "I hired you, stupid." He strolls back towards the bed. "Of course, that was after I watched a video of you. Had to make sure you looked like a rock star."
"Oh yeah?" Miami arches an eyebrow before slowly rolling onto his back. "And do I?"
Caspian tilts his head, blue-green eyes flashing bright. “Oh yeah. You do.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“You know,” Miami says. “Putting your hair in a ponytail ain’t gonna keep people from recognizing you.”
“Shut up, I know that.” Caspian adjusts his sunglasses before peering over the edge of the rims. “If you had as much hair as me, you’d want it out of your face sometimes, too.”
“Lies.” Miami runs a hand through his own locks, which have grown at least two inches since he joined Caspian’s band.
Even without the wild curls, Miami’s hair is thick and ridiculous all on its own. Coloring it was a bitch.
“People are staring at us, anyway.” Caspian dispenses with the sunglasses and perches them on top of his head. “Just part of the job.”
“Look, whatever.” Miami glances at the gate and nods towards where passengers are now deplaning. “Fuck yeah, there he is.”
“Where? I don’t—-oh. Oh my gods.” Caspian grabs his arm and Miami snickers. “Is-is that . . .?”
“Yeah. I told you I knew people.”
Maybe now, Caspian would stop freaking out about rehearsing before the gig. Because they wouldn’t need to. Not with this guy.
His old friend looks pretty much the same, save the fact that his hair is as long as Miami’s now, streaked with strands of silver here and there. Might have some new ink, too. Damn, he needed to pay a visit to his own artist at some point. But yeah, the same basic shit. Ripped jeans, mirrored sunglasses, black shirt that was either purposefully “distressed” or worn to all to shit, old school biker boots, and a bass gig bag slung over his back.
“Hey, fuck off,” he was saying to one of the attendants attempting to offer him a hand with his bag. “I’ve got it.”
Yep. Same attitude, too.
“Well, I see they’re letting anybody get on planes these fucking days,” Miami says as his friend pushes past some guy that’s taking too long to adjust his tie.
“Shocked you’re still alive,” the other man says.
But he drops his bag and gives Miami a hug just the same, complete with a hard slap on the back.
“Asshole,” Miami says with a smirk. He turns to Caspian, who is doing his best to look nonchalant and failing all over the place. “So, you know who this fucker is.”
“I do!” Caspian sounds more like an enthusiastic child than a grown-ass man, but that’s pretty much standard. “Miami wouldn’t tell me who was coming, but I wasn’t expecting this.” He smacks Miami on the shoulder less-than-playfully. “You didn’t tell me you knew The Dragon, jackass.”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t tell me he was playing with Caspian St. Claire, either. Thought his dumb ass was still in LA, dicking around with that ‘solo career’ bullshit.” The bassist holds out his hand. “Blair Drago.” He slips the sunglasses off his nose with a smirk that can rival Miami’s expression on a good day. “But I’m guessing you know that.”
“Fuck yes, I know that.” Caspian shakes Blair’s hand with both of his, which is straight out hilarious, but totally expected. “I guess you know me, too?”
“Who the fuck doesn’t know you.” Blair adjusts the edge of the bandana tied around his head. “So, we gonna play some rock or what?”
“Uh, yeah.” Caspian laughs in that high, chime-like giggle of his and it draws the attention of approximately 72 people. “But let’s get some food first. Dragons eat raw fish, right?”
Blair chuckles. “I eat anything that doesn’t eat me first.”
________________________
TEST TWO: CASPIAN POV
“Sooo, I really don’t care how you do it. Like, it doesn’t have to be the way Collen played it or anything like that, just as long as . . .” Caspian’s voice trails off when Blair holds up his hand in a “stop” gesture.
Given that whole “slightly parted lips and short, shallow breathing” thing, Caspian has a pretty good idea what’s going to happen. And he probably shouldn’t stare, but he’s gonna.
Blair presses a knuckle to the side of his nose without the ring and cringes. "Fuuh–f-ffuhhck. . . uuh–hkd’SSSH! Ehk'NGSSCH!"
A pause. A little squinting at the overhead lights. An insane amount of unproductive hitching.
"--hh! EKSSCHT! HjDSSCHu!"
Unlike Miami, he actually uses his napkin to wipe at his nose and shakes his head. “The fuck. What were you saying?”
What was he saying?
"Oh, uh. Something, something, bass playing," Caspian says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Whatever. Not important. Pretty sure you know my songs. And bless you."
“Thanks. I know your shit, yeah.” Blair taps the edge of his nose ring and winces. “Man, I knew I shouldn’t have fucked with this thing.”
“What do you mean?”
Of course he was going to ask. Fucking duh.
“I changed it,” he says. “Had a black one in there earlier. Thought it looked weird. Put the silver back in. Regretting my life choices.”
Caspian snort-laughs in an obnoxious, flustered fashion and Blair glances at him over the rim of his glass of water. “I make you nervous.”
It’s not a flirtation. It’s a factual observation.
“Well, yeah.” Caspian runs a hand through his hair, or tries to. Too much damn curl there. “I mean, you’ve played with people way better than me. Like, legends.”
Blair sets his glass down and looks at him. “That’s not why.”
But he doesn’t elaborate, which is weird. It’s not an attraction thing. Sure, the man had a hot sneeze and the looks to match, but it’s still something else. And Caspian isn’t going to address . . . whatever it is.
____________________________________________
TEST THREE: BLAIR POV
He pulls the cigarette out of the pack with his teeth and nudges it between his lips as he fishes for his lighter. The little metal bastard is hiding somewhere in his inner jacket pockets. Good for ear monitors. Not so good for lighters.
After way too much trouble, he finds the damn thing, sparks a flame, and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans this time. You know, with the goddamn smokes.
“That’ll kill you, you know,” Caspian says.
Blair exhales a stream of smoke from his nostrils. “Gotta die of something.”
“I mean, I guess.” Caspian laughs and Blair pushes the plate of small pastries towards him.
“Eat this. I don’t do sweet shit.”
If Blair was expecting polite refusal, he’s not getting it. Caspian’s reaction is immediate, almost automatic munching. Like he’s not even thinking about it.
He expels another cloud of smoke away from Caspian’s direction and smirks. “That shit’ll kill you, you know.”
“What? Sugar?” Caspian says around a mouthful of whatever kind of cake he’s just popped into his mouth. “Dude, I’d be dead by now, if that was a thing.”
Blair chuckles, takes a minute to readjust the bandana tied over his head and tucks the tip back behind the knot where it belongs. “So Miami gave this shit up.” He nods to the cigarette between his fingers. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Caspian’s calculated annihilation of the cake squares stops. “Huh? He’s like, super allergic to smoke. No way he did that.”
“Fuck yes, he did.” Blair flicks a bit of ash onto the concrete. “He did a lot of shit.”
“Well, I knew about the coke.” Caspian eyes him with a tilt of his head. “What kind of shit?”
“Mmn, well. . .” Blair taps one longish nail on the wrought iron table. “I could tell you some things, kid.”
Inspiration: This scenario by yours truly, requested in this ask from anon, plus this snippet, “you need a damn hospital!” from @a-fever-a-day
Author’s comments: When I posted that scenario, I honestly didn’t think I’d ever write it. However, since I’ve eventually ended up writing all the scenarios I’ve ever posted, I think was was pretty silly of me. Idek what else to say– Vic and Addison were created so I could vicariously live out one of my wildest fantasies through them. That’s all that this is. I’ll likely want to continue living that fantasy too, so you’ll probably see more of them, especially if you request scenarios for them.
As a caveat, I know next to nothing about the music industry, so if there’s egregious errors, I guess I’m sorry and I’d love feedback so I can correct them in the future lol. Without further ado, welcome to my rockstar ‘verse!
Inspiration: These asks from anons requesting Sick!Molly with Caregiver!Shane and this prompt from @beaugtifuw about shooing away a concerned inquiry while summoning a tissue.
Author’s comments: I don’t usually write female sickies, but Caregiver!Shane is really too cute to resist, so I see why y’all requested this. My adorable golden retriever boy just wants his girl to feel better. Fun fact, I never thought I’d actually use that “summoning a tissue” snippet, but it worked so well here! Snzblr prompts are always so fire.
Anyway, enjoy Sick!Molly here. Sick!Shane is coming later this month :)
hello! if you’re still taking first sentences, one for your wwi-era set - “After a moment, the smoke on the wind is recognisable as an ordinary coal fire.”
Introducing, in person at last, my WWI era throuple. Or at least, very much introducing Jack, sort of introducing Hendry, and just barely introducing Flora, who got unfortunately sidelined in this piece by Jack's hyper focus on Hendry here.
I feel like this ended up a little clumsy in places. I probably could have made it smoother if I wasn’t mentally tying it to a pre-existing WIP, but it was the place in their timeline that made the most sense. Also awkwardly shoe-horning in a bit of backstory since this is their first real introduction.
Oh, and I’m not going to try to write dialect because I feel like I would probably just end up mangling it, but please imagine Jack with a Scottish (probably Edinburgh/the Lothians, but I’m still torn on where exactly he’s from) accent, Flora with an RP accent, and Hendry with a Geordie accent.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
After a moment, the smoke on the wind is recognisable as an ordinary coal fire.
Because of course that’s all it is Jack scolds himself, he’s not in the hinterlands of France anymore, sitting on the doorstep of hell, he’s on a leisurely country stroll (well, alright, country limp then) in Gloucestershire. England. Not quite home, but close enough. Close enough that he shouldn't be jumping at shadows.
He sneaks an abashed sidelong glance at his companions and is childishly relieved to find that Hendry has also stiffened. Or, rather, equal parts relieved and concerned, but even the concern is a shamefully welcome distraction.
Although on second glance, perhaps it’s not that, like him, Hendry has also made the puerile mistake of imagining, even if only for an instant, that someone's hearth fire is, instead, something sinister and deadly. Perhaps the sudden tightening of his shoulders is merely his body's preamble to pitching him roughly to the side with a pair of urgent, forceful sneezes. Certainly that is what he proceeds to do at any rate, one hand cupping loosely over his nose and mouth as he crumples sharply into it.
“H’dTzschhH! HuhH!-H'gHRrizschhh-uh!”
"God bless you." Jack and Flora say, almost in unison and with mirroring expressions of concern as he straightens slowly back up.
Despite having been the first one to come down with this cold, which is now steadily working its way through the whole of the manor, Hendry is also, of the three of them at least, the one for whom it has lingered the longest. A circumstance which has led to a lot of private fretting and surreptitiously exchanged glances between Jack and Flora. Because although they know, cannot help but notice in fact, if Hendry so much as rolls up his shirt sleeves, that the thing that finally got him sent back to England was a dangerously close encounter with mustard gas, and although it is also apparent, from how minimal and subtle the scarring on his face is, that he must have managed to get his gas mask on with a reasonable degree of alacrity, the crucial bit of information they lack is whether he was fast enough to save his lungs. Perhaps Hendry himself doesn't know. If he does, he hasn't said, but that's hardly a surprise to either of them and proves nothing as far as they're concerned.
For her part, Flora's fears have been largely mollified by the fact that Hendry's stubbornly lingering symptoms seem to be primarily isolated to his sinuses. Jack is less reassured, unlike her, he has witnessed firsthand far more than he would ever care to of what mustard gas can do to a body, and he has also witnessed, as Flora again, perforce, has not, the way this cold has sometimes had Hendry waking in the night coughing like his life depends upon it.
He only allowed himself to be talked into letting Hendry come out on this walk at all because it has now been three nights in a row since, to the best of Jack's knowledge, Hendry has done anything more restless than clear his throat and roll over in his sleep.
In this moment however, Jack's concern is as much about Hendry’s nerves as his physical wellbeing, because Hendry has not moved to retrieve his handkerchief as usual, but is standing terribly still, like a startled rabbit, his eyes fixed back on the wavering column of smoke drifting unsteadily on the breeze.
"The season’s starting to turn." Jack says, though the words feel strangely thick in his throat. "I shouldn't wonder if we get back to find a blaze in every grate, chimneys smoking as merrily as that one.”
He says this last very clearly and pointedly, his eyes fixed firmly on Hendry, whose own eyes are still fixed on the smoke.
To Flora of course that gently drifting plume will never have been anything but innocent, such a familiar part of her landscape that it probably scarcely even registers to her eye. She is more than perceptive enough to have picked up that something is amiss though of course, her cool grey eyes darting questioningly, uncertainly, back and forth between Jack and Hendry.
I may just spam you with potential Dash 5 sentence prompts, in case something sparks something, don't mind me!
Allen looks down at his sniffling partner and says, "You look about how I feel right now."
Sparking very much accomplished my friend 💛💛
This was my first time writing from Allen's POV and it was both fun and challenging to try to get a handle on his voice!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Allen looks down at his sniffling partner and says, "You look about how I feel right now."
Which is to say, like shit.
Dashiell, who usually has one of the faster reaction times on the force, raises his head from the evidence report he's studying like he's moving through molasses. His eyes are shadowed, nostrils rubbed a raw, angry looking pink, and when he lets his breath out in a sigh, one that sounds like it might be trying to be a laugh, but lacks the energy, it catches somewhere in his throat and turns into something closer to a cough.
The ache in Allen’s own throat seems to ratchet up another notch or two in sympathy and he swallows painfully against it as Dash rocks back in his chair to look wearily up at him, absently massaging one of his temples.
I take it I'm not the only one who caught Sanchez's, uh…" He clears his throat roughly again. "Allergies."
“You are not.” Allen grunts, depositing himself heavily into his own chair and reaching across their shared desk to take possession of the box of tissues currently sitting by his partner’s elbow. “If I see that lying bastard I might just trip him down the nearest staircase. I feel like I spent the last twenty-four hours gargling acid while Mike Tyson punched me in the head.” He adds before blowing his nose for what feels like the millionth time since this thing, which Sanchez had spent the better part of last week insisting was allergies, started to settle into his head with a vengeance sometime Saturday evening.
“Good luck.” Dash murmurs, now rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “You’ll have to go to his apartment. He finally called in sick this morning apparently.”
"That son of a… Of course he waited till he'd infected the whole precinct and then fucked off home."
It's hard to tell for sure if the bob of Dash's head is agreement or one of those pinched, silent sneezes he sometimes does. Either way there seems to be no question that it’s going to be a very long day.
hi hi hello friends I am officially trying to catch up today so if you see a whole lot of fic reblogging from this account please reconcile your possible annoyance at the sheer volume of rbs with the knowledge that everything I’m about to reblog is Real Good.
I missed a lot and sicktember raised that amount to a Whole Lot and I’m not gonna be able to catch up on absolutely everything but there’s so much amazing content here and I get to binge it and that’s amazing and I love this lil community and I missed it dearly! There are some lovely messages in my ask inbox that I intend to respond to ASAP as well!
I posted this five line (or, in this case, more like five paragraph) fill for @mongooseblues 's prompt "You of all people should not be fussing over me right now, Mr. Week-Long Fever." a couple of days ago, but I think my excessive introductory commentary might have been a little overwhelming and maybe put people off? So I'm posting it again sans rambling. If you want the commentary you can find it here. If you just want a random moment between a couple of disaster gays, read on!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"You of all people should not be fussing over me right now, Mr. Week-Long Fever." Dont’a eventually gets out, in a hoarse rasp, once he finally manages to stop coughing long enough to breathe.
The expression that settles onto Dash's face in response is such an incongruous combination of skepticism, exasperation, and a sort of caught-in-the-act defensiveness that Dont'a can't help but laugh. Unfortunately that only serves to start him coughing again and for a few miserable moments all he's aware of is the incessant seizing of his lungs and Dash's too warm hands on his back, kneading gently. Warmth that would feel pleasant, soothing, if he weren't all too aware that it’s the product of a fever that’s been fluctuating between 100 and close to 102 all week. A fever that Dashiell ‘Don’t Worry About Me’ Halsey insists is somehow negated by the fact that it’s been brought on by stress rather than illness. As though that makes it less concerning.
Nevermind that even someone who doesn’t know him well would be able to read the exhaustion in every line of his body. Nevermind that Dont’a, who has known him since they were eleven, can tell from the way he moves, the way he positions himself, and then shifts that position restlessly, that there’s a deepening, unrelenting ache in all of his muscles, and probably a touch of lightheaded dizziness to boot.
Almost as if on cue, like he can read Dont’a’s thoughts, Dash’s voice drifts over his shoulder as the coughing subsides again.
“It’s not like I’m actually sick. You, on the other hand…”
Dont’a is careful not to scoff too aggressively lest his lungs take it as an invitation to further rebellion.
“It’s a cold, Dash. I’m not running a… hhH! fev… Huh-IH - Oh g-hH!-od… HhIH…!”
His eyelids flutter shut in involuntary desperation and he all but lunges forward, scrabbling for a tissue, feels one pressed into his hands not quite in time to fully catch the first damp sneeze.
“Hh'kTSSCCHhhHh! … H'TCHMMmPPH!”
He does manage to smother the second one, but -
"Well… I'm not sick yet anyway."
Dont’a blinks his gritty eyes back open to find Dash wiping the back of his hand on this pant leg.
"Fuck, sorry."
“It’s okay.” Dash shakes his head with a not quite fully formed chuckle. “My fault for getting my hand in the way. Anyway,” He shrugs, “if I do get sick at least I’ll finally have an excuse for the fever.”
Because of course he thinks he needs some better justification than he already has…
