duchessjuto

[duchessjuto]

I'd love 8 and 19 for the cuddling prompts!! Bonus points if you could combine them 🥺👉👈💖

I'm sorry this is so so so late 😅 but I looove some sick fic, so this was a delight! also featuring adorable art by @spielzeugkaiser (see end of the fic) <3 thank you sooo much for doing this with me pls go send some love to Conny because they deserve it! I adore this piece ❤︎❤︎

To Have and To Hold || ao3 

It's not often lately that Geralt and Jaskier manage to find an available room at an inn, never mind one with two beds, but tonight they have been lucky. Well, Geralt has been lucky. In the three weeks it's been since they were last in town, Jaskier has managed to pick up a head cold and it's gotten bad enough that sleeping outside isn't really an option for them anymore - not at least in the cool autumn weather. So Geralt has done his best to find them a decent town with a decent room and Jaskier seems to be doing a little better already.

He's sitting by the fire in the common area, wrapped up in a blanket that the innkeeper's wife brought down for him especially. He looks small and sad and miserable and Geralt's chest aches at his helplessness. As a Witcher, Geralt doesn't get sick and it's been too long since he was truly human to even remember what it was like. He doesn't know what to do to help and he feels rather out of place trying to figure it out. But he starts with a room at an inn and he's ordered stew and rolls for supper.

While they're waiting for their food, Geralt heads up to their room, accidentally interrupting the chambermaid as she finishes filling the bath.

"The bath is ready for you," she says quietly, ducking her head as Geralt approaches, "is there anything else you need?"

Geralt opens his mouth to ask for… he doesn't know. What do people want when they're sick? What do they need?

"I- my friend is sick," he sighs, shoulders slumping, "I don't know how to help him. What do you do for someone who's sick?"

"Oh," the chambermaid says, surprised. "How sick is he?"

"He has a cold, it's not serious."

"Well, um, when my sister is ill, I make her soup and hot tea to drink. A little bit of honey helps if your friend has a sore throat."

"He has been complaining about not being able to sing," Geralt muses, "that might help."

"Then I would definitely recommend some tea and honey. I'll bring some up for you. And I'll see if I can't find a few extra blankets, they don't call it a cold for nothing." She smiles tentatively up at Geralt and he offers a forced grin in return.

"You don't need to worry about him," she says, "my name is Penelope and if you need anything at all feel free to come and find me. As for you," Penelope adds, rising to her feet, "just keep him warm and fed and I'm sure he'll be much happier after he's had a bath."

"I hope so," Geralt mumbles.

"I'm just downstairs if you need anything."

Penelope crosses to the door, closing it gently behind her and Geralt hums to himself. He appreciates Penelope's help, but he's still got to try and keep Jaskier warm and comfortable and so far he's been doing a shit job of it.

Geralt spends a short time organizing, piling the blankets from his own bed onto Jaskier's, and readying Jaskier's salts and oils for his bath. Geralt leaves them on a stool next to the tub and just as he's about to go back downstairs to collect Jaskier, Penelope comes back. Geralt holds the door for her and she smiles as she brings in a tray with a steaming mug and some honey.

"For your friend," she says, "and I found this-" she holds out a bed stone and Geralt takes it from her. It's warm to the touch and he frowns down at it. "Put it in his bed and it will keep him warm," Penelope explains. "I'll be right back with your supper."

"Thank you," Geralt says, looking up from the rock to offer her a genuine smile as she slips from the room once more.

Before he heads down after her, Geralt takes the stone to Jaskier's bed, tucking it under the covers and pulling them up to keep in the heat. He runs a hand over the top blanket before pulling himself away and heading down to the common area to collect Jaskier. He finds him still curled up in a chair by the fire, head tucked into the corner of his chair and Geralt can't help the soft smile that crosses his face, though he does his best not to acknowledge the accompanying tightness in his chest.

"Jask," he says gently, coming up behind, "supper's upstairs for you and there's a bath ready."

"Don't wanna," Jaskier mumbles, "so cold."

"Your stew and your bath will warm you. Come on."

Somewhat reluctantly, Jaskier tugs his blanket tighter around himself and slips off the chair. He stumbles a little and Geralt instinctively reaches out to him, catching him with one arm and steadying him. Jaskier offers up a weak smile and straightens up a little, but Geralt follows closely behind him as he crosses toward the stairs.

Jaskier stumbles again on the stairs and Geralt aches with his entire being to scoop him up and press him against his chest. He has never feared for Jaskier before despite his human frailty in comparison to a Witcher's lifestyle, but seeing him like this, Geralt is struck with the need to protect. And if that means bringing Jaskier against his chest and holding him until his breathing returns to normal and his chest loses that terrifying rattling sound, he'll do it.

Except he won't. He won't hold him and he won't tell him because Geralt is a coward.

So he just watches Jaskier climb the stairs, reaching out when he needs to be steadied and otherwise keeping his hands to himself. When they reach the room, Penelope is just leaving again and she offers a shy smile to Geralt as she slips past them in the hall. Geralt suspects she knows about the ache in his chest and the twitching of his muscles to hold and soothe. Why else would she offer such care?

Jaskier makes directly for the bath, but Geralt stops him before he can shed his blanket.

"Eat first," he says gently, pulling his hand back a little too quickly, "I'll warm the water for you if it cools. The chambermaid brought tea as well, she said it might help your throat."

Jaskier offers him another half smile and Geralt turns away, taking a deep breath as quietly as he can manage. He fiddles with his swords, cleaning and sharpening them while Jaskier eats because he needs to do something with his hands. By now, Jaskier must think he's paranoid about intruders because he does this so often when they're in town. But the truth is that when they're like this, just the two of them alone in a firelit room, Geralt struggles to keep his hands to himself. Now more than ever.

He's finished before Jaskier has eaten all his supper, so Geralt lines his potion bottles up and pulls out his herb satchel in preparation to mix up more. Out of the corner of his eyes, Geralt catches Jaskier rising to his feet and crossing back to the tub.

"Warm enough?" Geralt asks without raiding his eyes.

"Mmhm."

"Alright. Let me know if you need it warmed."

"Thank you, Geralt," Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt ducks his head again, focusing hard on his herbs instead of the fact that Jaskier is naked and sick a few feet away and so, so vulnerable. Geralt has never really worried too much about bandits - or anyone else, for that matter - sneaking into their room, but tonight he's on edge, twitching at every little sound.

When Jaskier finally gets out of the bath, he bundles himself up in his blanket again and shuffles over to his bed. Geralt is only half paying attention, careful to give Jaskier his privacy while also remaining on guard. But a little gasp catches him off guard and he turns to find Jaskier peering under the sheets of his bed.

"What is this?" Jaskier asks and Geralt shifts a little anxiously, looking over at the bed, all his distractions long since put away.

"A bed warming stone," he explains, "Penelope brought it up for you. To keep your bed warm. It's… important for you to keep warm."

"Penelope?" Jaskier asks.

"The chambermaid."

"Ah." Jaskier sounds a little disappointed, but when he climbs into bed, Geralt can hear the little contented sounds he makes while he gets comfortable.

Geralt rises up to his feet and crosses to the other side of the room, blowing out the candles one by one until the only light in the room is the still-crackling fire. Geralt pulls the screen across it and retreats to his own bed, shucking his trousers and shirt before climbing into the bed that suddenly seems far too large for one person on their own.

He's just used to sharing, he tells himself, but when he climbs under the covers, he knows it's more than that. He misses the warmth of another body against him, misses the way Jaskier shuffles too close when it's cold, sucking up all of Geralt's body heat. He even misses the idiot's cold toes against the backs of his legs. For the first time ever, Geralt wishes they didn't have the luxury of two beds.

But he's not about to go and climb into Jaskier's space, least of all when he's not well. He's so focused on his own thoughts he almost misses the tiny voice in the dark.

"Geralt?"

"Jaskier?"

"Could you- it's just I'm so- I fear this may be the end," he says and Geralt doesn't like the change in his voice, the forced humour in that last sentence. He knows Jaskier is not that sick, but the fake humour worries him.

"You'll be fine," Geralt responds, playing along as he normally would.

"I don't think so," Jaskier says, rolling over to face Geralt across the expanse of the room, "I may very well perish." He sounds more genuine this time, at least and the tight ball in Geralt's chest gives a little.

"I'd know if you were dying," he says simply, clinging on to this little bit of forced normalcy by his fingernails.

"You wouldn't," Jaskier says, "or you'd come over here right now."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I need you," Jaskeir says and Geralt's heart stops beating for a moment. He's used to silence, has learned to settle his own body so that he can hear everything around him for miles. But the silence that follows those four words is nothing he's ever experienced.

"For what?" The silence that follows is somehow longer and heavier than before.

"Come cuddle me?"

"What?" Geralt asks before he can think better of it.

"I just- I sleep better with you here," Jaskier breathes, so quietly Geralt almost doesn't catch it. "I know we finally have two beds and it's more comfortable for you, but I'm- I'm cold and you're always so warm."

"Jaskier-" it's a warning, for Geralt more than anyone. That this is dangerous, that he shouldn't let himself get up right now, but he wants to. Too much.

"You'd never forgive yourself if I died when you could have easily stopped my suffering-"

"Jaskier, you're not dying."

"I might be."

Another long pause lingers between them and Geralt's heart pounds so heavily in his chest that he's sure Jaskier will hear it. He struggles with himself about the decision before he sighs and pushes the blankets back. He's already halfway across the room before he really realizes what he's doing, but Jaskier lifts the blankets up for him and Geralt slips in as Jaskier rolls away from him.

Geralt shudders as Jaskier's feet press to the front of his legs, somehow still frozen, but he settles remarkably quickly. A chill goes through him, but Geralt drapes an arm over Jaskier's middle, pulling him tighter against his chest and Jaskier lets out a soft contented sigh. This… despite Geralt's hesitation, his fears, feels right.

"Better?" he asks and Jaskier elbows him as he readjusts, mumbling a soft sorry.

"Yeah," Jaskier breathes, "you're warm."

"Mm."

"Thank you," Jaskier mumbles and Geralt can already hear his breath evening out, the steady pace of his heart. He's already falling asleep.

"For what?"

"For taking care of me. Know it wasn't Penelope."

"It was."

"'S not her now," Jaskier yawns, wiggling back against Geralt's chest. "G'night Geralt."

Geralt lets go of the tightly coiled control for a moment, pressing his nose into Jaskier's neck and pressing a soft kiss in his hair.

"Sleep well, Jaskier."

[duchessjuto]

“You’re very sweet when you’re sick.”

[duchessjuto]

Soft caretaking things

Tucking a soft blanket around the whumpee's feet if they're cold

On that note, warming someone's hands and feet while keeping something cool on their head can help with a bad headache

Feeding the whumpee some herbal remedy, even in a modern setting, if it's a family recipe that *always works*, some syrupy concoction mixed with honey to sweeten it carefully spooned into the sick person's mouth

Boiling a pot of water on the stove or steaming up the bathroom and having a whumpee with bad chest congestion breathe in the steam to help loosen their chest

Giving plain toast or crackers to someone who's had an upset stomach or been captured and without food for a long time

Laying cold cloths over a feverish whumpee's forehead, neck, wrists, and chest, and later tucking them into a warm bed when the cooling treatment is over

Gently encouraging a vulnerable and embarrassed whumpee to take their shirt off in order to check wounds/bruises/a rash/listen to their chest

Tucking another cover around someone who's very sick or very cold, something that isn't even a blanket, maybe an old robe or even their own coat, anything to keep them warm and comfortable

Sitting with someone with a bad headache and holding their head in their lap, gently massaging their scalp

Singing softly to a whumpee who's too anxious to sleep while stroking their hair

[duchessjuto]

A little James Bond drabble featuring a sick Q. I still haven't had a chance to see the new movie yet, so no chance of spoilers LOL.

To say it was pouring would be an understatement. Streets were flooded, traffic at a standstill across the city, and still the rain pounded down. It was likely that no one in London made it to work on time that morning. The MI6 Quartermaster certainly wasn’t going to make it in anywhere close to his usual time. He certainly wasn’t going look his usual posh self either. A gust of wind had flipped his umbrella inside out and he’d trudged through three inches of standing water to finally make it to the office. As a result, his midsection was reasonably dry underneath his coat, but his hair was dripping, his trouser cuffs were wet halfway to his knee, and his shoes were probably ruined.

“Morning, Q.”

Of course. As if his morning couldn’t get any worse, 007 was waiting for him in his office. The agent made a show of looking at his watch, relishing in catching Q being late to work. God, the man was infuriating. He was also pristinely dressed and completely dry.

“Morning, 007,” Q sighed. He peeled off his jacket and hung it up to dry, shivering when the air-conditioned air hit his skin. The squelching sound his shoes made as he walked over to his electric kettle did not bode well for any hopes he had of salvaging them. As soon as he turned the water on to heat, Q turned to his agent. “What do you need this morning, Bond?”

“Wanted to ask you about some modifications on my—” He paused when Q raised a finger.

“Excuse mehh—” He barely gasped out before raising his arm and sneezing. HehhIhTSCHHoo! EhhIHTSCHHoo! heh Ehh HihhEHHSCHHOO!

“Bless you.” Bond sounded amused.

Q shook his head quickly, his breath already hitching.

Ehh Heh Ehh…HehIHHSCHHOOO! hehIHTSCHHOOO! HehhTSCHOOOO!

“Bless you again.” Less amusement this time. Q nodded, sniffling several times to make sure he was done before lowering his arm. He reached into his pocket for the tissues that he had grabbed before leaving the house that morning, drawing out a soggy mass of pulp—another victim of the morning’s storm. He could feel a headache coming on. He also felt more sneezes coming on and soon.

“Ub, Bond, I don’t suppose you have—oh. Yes. Thank you,” he said, taking the handkerchief Bond had taken from his inside jacket pocket. A trickle of ice cold water dripped from Q’s hair and down the back of his neck and he visibly shivered. Another nasty trio of sneezes shuddered through him.

HehIHHKTSCHOOO! hehIHHTSHOOO! hehIHHTSCHHOOO!

“You know you can’t actually catch a cold from being out in the rain,” Bond said. Q did his best to glare at the older man even as he used his handkerchief to wipe at his nose.

“I had the cold before going out into the rain,” he said with a sniffle. “This is just a bonus courtesy of being soaked and freezing.”

The kettle was ready, and Q turned to make himself a much-needed cup of tea. He allowed himself an extra spoon of honey and wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat thaw out his fingers. The first sip was extraordinary. If anything was going to help him salvage this day, it was going to be tea. Q turned his attention back to Bond, only to find that the man had disappeared. Perhaps he decided to bail instead of risking catching Q’s cold. Perhaps he had come to pester Q about something ridiculous and decided to take pity on him given the rather pathetic state he was in. Regardless, Q was relieved to be left alone.

That relief lasted all of twenty-four minutes before 007 returned.

“What is it now?” Q asked.

“I come bearing gifts.” He put a pile of MI6 issued sweats and a towel on Q’s desk. He’d evidently been over to the fitness center and helped himself to whatever he thought Q needed.

“I’m not wearing those,” Q said automatically. Though, he had to admit, the though of dry clothes (ugly and unprofessional as they might be) was appealing.

“You’re telling me you’d rather sit here in damp clothes, chilled to bone, with a bad head cold?” Bond didn’t wait for an answer before coming around to Q’s side of the desk and roughly towel drying his hair.

“What are you—stop it,” Q fussed. Once Bond was content that he’d dried Q’s hair (and left it sticking up in every possible direction…probably on purpose, Q thought), he spun the man’s desk chair around.

“Change. Now. I’ll give you some privacy.” He turned his back and walked several steps away. Q took the clothes and quickly changed. He couldn’t contain a sigh of relief when he slipped the sweatshirt over his head.

“Thank you,” Q said quietly, and Bond turned around.

“Saved the best for last.” He pulled a sock from underneath each arm.

“What the?”

“Warming them up for you,” Bond said.

“In your armpits?”

“There are other places I could have put them to soak up body heat,” he teased. Q did his very best not to laugh, preferring to disguise it as a cough. The socks were delightfully warm, and when he picked up his tea, Q thought there was a chance he might not freeze to death that day. Bond was putting Q’s wet clothes into a spare trash bag. “Pity about your shoes,” Bond said.

“Don’t bin them yet. I need something to wear home.” This time Q coughed in earnest. Now that he wasn’t entirely frozen, he was beginning to remember the nagging cold symptoms that had been bothering him for days. Bond frowned.

“How long have you been ill?”

He sneezed before he could answer.

huhIHHTSHHoo!

“Excuse me. A few days. Just a cold.”

Bond hummed thoughtfully and put a hand on Q’s forehead. Instead of the fever he was expecting, Q’s skin was freezing. He chuckled and shrugged off his suit coat, draping it over Q’s shoulders.

“You did get badly chilled, didn’t you?” he said, rubbing his hands briskly up and down the lengths of Q’s arms.

“MmHm.”

“I could take you home,” Bond suggested.

“Too much to do.”

He expected nothing less.

“Figured. Feeling less like an icicle?”

“I am. Thank you,” Q said. Bond patted his arm.

“Good. I need you in top form.”

“Why?” Q asked, his eyes narrowing. He knew that look in 007’s eyes.

“I wanted to discuss some modifications to my next car.”

[duchessjuto]

i see your 'there was only one bed' and raise you 'there were two beds but in the middle of the night, you still slip into mine and i don't complain because you're sick with a cold/fever because we were running away from the authorities last night and it was pouring rain, and i wake up the next morning and we're not cuddling or anything, although i wish we were, but we're facing each other and oh my god, you're still asleep and i can see every strand of disheveled hair, every freckle, every eyelash, every single detail of your face, illuminated by the 6 am sunrise from the molding motel window behind you, is this love?'

go fish

[duchessjuto]

Day 25: Candle

Fandom: Pride & Prejudice (Darcy)

Summary: Darcy is hard at work in the library—never mind that it’s late at night and he’s coming down with something. Cue Elizabeth to the rescue. Post-movie.

~

Elizabeth wasn’t quite sure why she was awake.

Except, she realized, her husband wasn’t in their bed. He had his own bed, as most spouses had individual beds to sleep separately, but he rarely used it. He and Elizabeth were far too close, and they always slept together, unless they’d been fighting, which they hadn’t recently.

But he still wasn’t here. And she couldn’t sleep again, she thought irritably, until he was.

Elizabeth rose from her bed and, lighting a candle, made her way down the halls of Pemberley. All of the servants were in their beds at this hour, as she longed to be, but she knew her husband could only be in one place: the library. And she was determined to get him back in their warm room, instead of in that book-filled icebox.

When she pushed open the giant door, she was gratified to see him sitting at the desk, peering through his ledgers with the light of a half-burnt candle of his own. He lifted his eyes up to her when he heard the door creaking, but lowered them back to the book he was scribbling in with nothing more than a sniffle and a quiet greeting of, “Mrs. Darcy.”

“Mr. Darcy,” she returned as she crossed the room to him, a bit cross at his curtness on top of having woken up alone, “have I done something to earn your wrath?”

At that, his eyes shot up to meet hers, and he looked alarmed and confused. “No, my sweet,” he said scratchily, burying a hasty, hoarse cough into his wrist. “What on earth should make you think so?”

Elizabeth was mollified at his clear refusal, and glad to know that he was not in fact angry with her. What’s more, she could see now what had not been obvious at bedtime: Darcy was pale, aside from a flush high in his cheeks, and he had that weary, dazed-eyed look of a man who was starting to build up a fever. Her husband was ill, even if he had not seemed to realize it yet, and that made her anger dissolve instantly. In addition, it made her long to get him back to bed even more.

“It was nothing, dearest,” she said, lowering her voice to be more soothing to his ears. “I am only curious as to why my husband is not in our bed, keeping me warm.”

He sniffled, then, reaching for the handkerchief he had set to the side of the desk. Bringing it up to tend to his nose—which, Elizabeth noted, looked pink and sore from his blossoming cold—he gestured to the ledgers. “I must… hh��� settle my ah-accounts… huschhshoo!”

Darcy had crumpled into his handkerchief with the sneeze, which sounded soft and exhausted. He rubbed at his nose through the handkerchief, his eyes glistening with tears of irritation, and promptly sneezed again, this time harder and without any buildup. “husshh’shooo!”

“Bless you!” Elizabeth exclaimed, and leaned over the desk to press a hand to his brow. As she’d suspected, it was warm. “You must allow me to take you to bed before you become truly ill, my love. The accounts can wait, as they have been doing.”

“It is only the dust from the books,” he said, sniffling, but he let her take him by the elbow and guide him to standing upright. As she blew out his candle and set the ledgers to the side, he brought his handkerchief back up to his face, hitching desperately. “huh… huhh… usschhshhh! uhhh… usshhhieww!”

“God bless you,” Elizabeth said firmly, taking him by the shoulder and steering him back to bed. “Dust or cold, it’s no matter; you should be resting at this time of night.”

Darcy was compliant during the walk back to the bedroom, during which he mostly sniffled and kept the handkerchief clutched close to his face. He stifled a few coughs as well, his back shuddering under the hand she’d clasped to his shoulder, and she tightened her grip on him to keep him steady. Both of them were healthy people, but when Darcy fell ill, it came on him hard. She was sure she was in for a rough bout of caretaking, once it hit him properly in the morning.

She put the candle back on the bedside table so she could see the room, then helped him clamber into the bed, tucking the covers securely up to his throat. “Do you need water?” she asked. “More blankets? …Do you need anything at all?”

Darcy shook his head at each question, then drew the handkerchief he’d kept stubbornly in his hands up to his nose. “My wife, in our bed, with me,” he answered, his voice raw with soreness and starting to take on a tinge of congestion.

She did her very best not to melt at that reply, and blew out the candle before getting back into bed herself. She’d put Darcy on the side that was still half-warm from where she’d been sleeping not fifteen minutes ago, and to avoid the chilliness of this new side, she curled up close to him. In turn, he shivered and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her in.

“Sleep, love,” she murmured in his ear, running her fingers through his hair in the way she knew he liked best.

In her arms, he shuddered, releasing an unexpected, shivery set of soft sneezes into the space between her ear and the pillow. “husshhh! hh… htchshh!”

“Bless you,” she said, running her hands over his back. “You are frozen, Mr. Darcy.”

But the half-stifled sneezes had done little to quell the itch in his nose, and he only gasped in her ear before releasing another double. “huh-huh—! hatchhsshh! hHH… HESSCHYIEWW!”

The second outburst had sounded profoundly relieving, and he snuffled, lifting a hand to swipe at his nostrils. “I amb rather cold,” he admitted, now sounding very stuffy and still a bit sneezy. “And I need my hh-handkerchief.”

Elizabeth felt around in the sheets for where he’d lost it, then drew back from the warm circle of limbs they’d created so she could hold it up to his face. In the darkness, she could barely see him, but she felt his eyes on hers, steady and trusting, as she dabbed at his nose and upper lip for him.

“Thandk you,” he said quietly once she’d finished, and drew her back into his arms. “You are too good to mbe, mby pearl.”

“It is no more than you deserve,” she told him.

“Agree to disagree,” he said sleepily.

She smiled and pulled him in tighter, kissing the side of his head to convey her affection. He mumbled something fondly at that, already half-asleep, and his breathing evened as he gave in to rest.

In the morning, he’d be feverish and fussy, and annoyed with himself for not finishing the accounts. But right now, he was sleepy and sweet, and she was glad she’d interrupted his nighttime work session if it meant she could keep her husband warm in their bed while he was coming down with a bad cold. Elizabeth closed her eyes and willed for both of them to sleep till morning.

[duchessjuto]

Sneezetober Day 6: Sweet

okay okay let’s get this out of the drafts and go to sleep. About a thousand words of Pushing Daisies for you, because sweet is sweet.

________________________

It was late October, the sort of gray and dismal day that made The Piemaker’s bones ache. It was the sort of day when he watched his feet hit the wet sidewalk as he walked and leering pumpkins sneaked up on you when you weren’t looking. The sort of day when it feels nice to be in a warm kitchen, surrounded by pastry and sweetness and friends.

Keep reading

[duchessjuto]

I’m in a writing rut…but it’s a fun one at least. Text messages are in italics.

Rumor has it you’re sick —A

For once, the rumor mill is right —B

I’ll be there in about an hour. What do you need? —A

He hoped that by being direct they might avoid the elaborate “I’m fine. No need to come over” argument.  He just presented it as fact: he was on his way. The only question was whether or not he’d be stopping at the shops first. The three dots blinking across his mobile screen confirmed his suspicion. He could picture him sitting on his sofa in a blanket cocoon trying to figure out what to say. He decided to help him out:

Tea? Medicine? Something for the cats? —A

The three dots kept ticking.

Stop overthinking this. —A

Finally:

I wasn’t stalling. Couldn’t stop sneezing long enough to text. Could you get more tissues? —B

Of course. —A

Keep reading

[duchessjuto]

A and B have had a bit of a fight recently and are now in the midst of an awkward morning routine where they are doing their best to keep to themselves even while they share common spaces. B is making coffee and breakfast while A pours cereal for themselves at the counter, chin propped in one hand. 

On top of all of that, A woke up especially sniffly and tickley today, and can’t stop one of their characteristic flurries of sharp, breathy sneezes. 

“Bless you,” B finally says, because they can’t stop themselves either. It’s quiet and more perfunctory than their usual warm blessings, but they can’t not. 

A nods a thank you without looking, feeling their cheeks flush. B hasn’t turned around either. 

A keeps sneezing, though, not in rapid succession anymore, but a muffled “Heh-chshsh!” every ten to twenty seconds or so, as if the fit can’t wind itself down. After the third of these, a slightly stronger, more final-sounding one, B blesses them again, a little more heartily, peaking at them over their shoulder.

Keep reading

[duchessjuto]

hey! where is my 30+ sneeze kink crowd at? reblog this so we can find each other

it feels hard to find peers when snzblr is so crowded with younger bloggers, but i know we’re out here. if you’re part of the sneeze kink community and you’re 30 or older, please reblog this post!

[duchessjuto]

Colin Firth♥♥♥

[duchessjuto]

I know it’s been said before but I really can’t get over how hot it is to witness the progress of someone’s cold.

Like, one day, you might notice how their voice is slightly hoarse and they’re occasionally seen unwrapping throat lozenges.

The next day, a few intermittent sneezes throughout the day that are politely muffled into the sleeves or collar of their sweater. It’s more than usual but nothing too peculiar.

And the next day you see them, they’ve developed a full-blown cold. Their hair is disheveled, their nose is red, their expression is completely dull and exhausted. They’re holding a wad of tissues in one hand. Their voice is thickened with congestion. When they see you, they begin to greet you like it’s just a typical day, but their cold interrupts them to announce its presence with an unrestrained wet sneeze. For the rest of the day, any silence is interrupted by their constant sniffling and it seems like you can’t go more than five minutes before hearing a congested sneeze from their direction.

[duchessjuto]

“A chorus of indescribable sneezes”

Indescribable you say? Is that a challenge? 😆Sounds like a snz olympic discipline to me 🤣🤣

From two different magazines.

Apparently tourists in the 1800s wanted to get up close to volcanoes but found that doing so had an… effect.

[duchessjuto]

Honestly whumpees sleeping is just the most adorably vulnerable thing. Like they're still fighting whatever injury or illness they've been weakened by and all they want to do is sleep for hours on end, maybe on their back or curled on their side, sometimes a caretaker will come in and make sure they're well covered up but apart from that nobody wants to wake them. Maybe their cheeks are flushed or they're frowning a little in their sleep but their breathing is steady and even for the first time in ages. Even if someone does have to wake them up briefly for whatever reason they've curled back up and gone back to sleep only seconds later.

[duchessjuto]

someone who changes up the way they catch their sneezes every single time. one day it’s caught into hurried cupped hands, the next day it’s slammed into an elbow, the day after it’s muffled into a tissue, the day after that it’s directed into the collar of their shirt… etc. etc.

[duchessjuto]

stifled sneezes making an allergy attack so much worse and more prolonged??? pinching nostrils closed so tightly that the allergen literally has nowhere to go and the irritation just continuously builds??????? hhnnggg

[duchessjuto]

Currently weak for the image of red, inflamed, chafed nostrils — undeniable evidence of a character’s worsening cold provoking harsher and harsher treatment of a nose that won’t quit running or is just so terribly itchy that they can’t help themself.

And then in the presence of a partner or friend they reach to scrub at it again only to be caught by the wrist before they can do so, softly chastened by the words of someone who, at this moment, knows better:

    “Hey hey, be gentle.”