poor-darling

[poor-darling]

a wrenching near perfectly silenced stifle immediately followed by the wettest most desperate sniffle imaginable

[poor-darling]

someone who’s well aware of the mess they make after every sneeze and reflexively swipes their still-running nose across their sleeve, leaving a lengthy trail of damp fabric in its wake. it's certainly a less fashionable look for them, but considering the alternative would be letting all that stream down their face...

[poor-darling]

Your beloved boyfriend has come down with a very sneezy cold, poor thing. He comes to you meek and shuffling, as if telling you his plight is like going to confession.

“I think I caught a bit of a-a… ahhh! hh—hh’nggKtshh!… hht’tCHhhuu—euhh…” He sighs before finishing, “A cold.” You bless him before beckoning him to come closer and he knows exactly what to do. He mumbles, snuggling into your side, rubbing his nose with the sleeve of his knitted jumper. “I’b okay, though. Just… y’know. A little… snff! sneezy. A l-lot sneezy, actually…”

Gentle, but firm, you pull his body to your chest, noticing the little shivers that have taken over his usual, self-assured demeanour. “It’s okay, you know I’ll look after you.” You comfort him.

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this,” He whispers against your neck, sniffling pitifully. “I was gonna warn you, but I—hh-huhh—hhuh’KSSHheww-uhh!! snff—nghh, couldn’t make it past the first sentence.”

Your fingers are already brushing his hair back, tilting his flushed face up to yours.

“I think your nose might need a stern talking to,” you say playfully, though your touch is nothing but soft and loving.

“…It’s a very bad influence on me,” He laughs with a weak smile. “It’s out of c-control— hhuh… HEH’CHhhheww!! snnrk—‘scuse be…”

You kiss his forehead, it’s a little warm for your liking. “Well, don’t worry anymore. That nose of yours is mine to look after now.”

[poor-darling]

"I'b r-really - huh - ihhh - hih’ERSSHH’IUE! ...sigk." The last word is a miserable groan into a handful of tissues.

[poor-darling]

coughing with a cold and it makes their runny nose leak even more... tissues wrapped around their nose as they cough repeatedly into their hands, praying it will be over soon

[poor-darling]

The ceremonial changing of the guard--the moving of the tissue box from one bedside table to the other--when one partner has well and truly caught the cold their partner is now recovering from.

[poor-darling]

Upcoming fic

I am writing an extremely self-indulgent fic. It's heavily inspired by one of my fav fics ever called- The Experiment- (1) The Experiment – @poor-darling on Tumblr.

I love contagion but mainly if it's within a constrained circumstance if that makes sense?

Anyway, here's a lil snippet!

xoxo

“Just through here, Mr Daniels.”

Nathan exhaled nervously, following the scientist into a small room. It was like a uni dorm, with a bed, a desk and an en-suite. There was a window, but no way to open it. And on the ceiling was a large vent, whirring fresh air inside.

“This is where you will be staying for the duration of the experiment,” the lady explained, “The air is currently fresh but after letting you get settled, we’ll inform you of when that changes.”

Nathan nodded.

She glanced over her clipboard. “Just to clarify, you do consent to remain in this room for this experiment, once we commence you will be unable to leave unless you use your right to withdraw.”

“Understood.”

“And,” she continued, “The intention of this experiment is to see how easily you are infected by an air-borne rhinovirus.”

She gestured to the vent above them, “As explained before, the air source of this vent will change- connecting you to a room housing an individual at the prime contagious stages of a rhinovirus. The air entering this room will therefore be filled with viral particles. You will be monitored each day to see if you get infected, how long it takes symptoms to manifest and how severe they are. Do you consent to likely being infected?”

Nathan swallowed, a ripple of electric shooting down from his stomach. He pictured the particles floating in through the vent, filling his lungs with nothing he could do about it.

“Y-yes I do.”

[poor-darling]

“Aw, poor thing, I can hear that cold in your voice.”

[poor-darling]

Getting home from work and finding your sweet sick partner exactly where you left them: propped up in bed, wearing pajamas, and hitching, hitching, hit--eh-eh---hitching up to a sneeze.

[poor-darling]

being sick and spending the whole day sneezing and jerking off and napping and sneezing yourself awake and jerking off to go back to sleep and so on

[poor-darling]

I think j posted bout this before (and it’s SO about my ocs but I digress) but there’s a rotating thought in my brain every so often of like ladies book club going on in the parlour room while the host’s husband is upstairs (or downstairs? Historical architecture..) in bed with a cold. And every so often there’s a ruckus of sneezing from somewhere in the house but he’s really trying to be quiet, honestly, he swears. Sometimes he shuffles into the kitchen to make tea before disappearing into the sick den that is the bedroom.

Either the host explains to her friends with some offhand comment like “I’m so sorry bout that, he was caught up in the rain earlier and has been fighting off just the most horrid cold” and every so often vanishes upstairs to check in on (or pamper the hell out of) him. Or it’s just an unspoken piece of knowledge.

Or even better she’s a bit red around the eyes and nose and everyone just Knows the inevitable has happened.

And because I’m the biggest sucker for a shy pathetic romantic, him migrating downstairs to sleep on the love seat so he could be closer to the kitchen but also because he’s dear wife insists on it so she could keep an eye on him because that cough is sounding worse for wear. Bonus points if he’s mortified at the idea of being in front of guests looking like he does and he’s still trying to be as discreet as possible.

Also the thought of a bunch of like historical ladies sitting around yammering about their husbands or wives and their approaches to being ill or taking care of them will make me self combust.

(Also just because OC specific, also works in the realm of suffragette meeting or with a lesbian lover, I have a whole cast and crew in my cranium)

[poor-darling]

One of the strangest regular fantasies I have revolves around the character of the Unpleasant Little Man.

He's middle aged, short, has a belly, and he wears thick glasses. He's some sort of a bureaucrat - not exactly a powerful one, but he does get to lord over a team of office clerks or such, a typist or scribe or few, maybe clients, whatever it is he's very diligent about making everyone else's day a little bit worse. And if he only can, considerably so.

He's very conscious about the tiny power he wields and wants it aknowledged. He's not only inflexible but positively revels in it. While he's usually sullen (in a pompous way that tries and fails to emulate gravity), finding out he can't help someone will light up his face with a rare, contented smile. And he has horrific allergies.

Perhaps year round allergies, or perhaps during winter months they take back seat to back-to-back colds. His nose is always running like a tap, he's constantly sniffling and snuffling, sighing and groaning, blowing his red snotty nose into a handkerchief with a loud, revolting gurgle. No-one in the office has ever heard him pronounce a clear N or M.

He always sneezes at least 5 times in a row, sometimes 15, sometimes more. They are not rapid fits, he usually has time to gasp in a breath between the sneezes, though not always. Wet, itchy, surprisingly heavy, wildly spraying sneezes, and each delivered like an accusation. How dare you idiots be breathing through your noses! And no matter how he keeps wiping his glasses, they are always dim with sneeze spray.

He's always talking about it too, giving distasteful detail about how badly his nose is running today, how stuffy his head is, the state of his handkerchiefs. Starting a meeting, looking so stern it scares those working under him, with an angry complaint: "I sneezed 27 times this morning upon waking up! Twedty-seved!" Like he was blaming anyone and everyone who is forced to listen, lest they lose their jobs, or any chance of getting any permit or certificate or whatever a client is hoping to get from him.

A client or an underling who has just moved there from a faraway place, experiencing allergies for the first time in their life. His watery eye would light up with malicious glee, a chuckle (somehow sounding snotty), a thick sniffle, "Well, welcobe to hell! Eh-Ettssschuuh! Ettsssschuuh!"

When he has a cold, and he does catch so many, his desk will be constantly filled with handkerchiefs, teas, little boxes of coughdrops etc. Sneezing perhaps not as many times in a row but at least as often, and with absolute, unsanitary abandon, really the world better stop while he has to sneeze, and if you can, try to take cover. Though if upon recovery he would notice that someone has done something so disrespectful, he would be sure to see they can't repeat that mistake next time their superior sneezes.

He doesn't purposely infect others, but doesn't make any effort to not to spread his colds, and he always comes to work sick and requires everyone else to do so unless they're fit to be hospitalised. Well if someone is running a very obvious fever he will ask them to his desk, ask about their symptoms, give them some patronising comments about not neglecting their health, and sends them home. If he has temperature himself - he seldom gets it - he will wilt, and say with a heartbroken voice that he might have fever, oh damn this cold, someone needs to try his forehead.

(yes, writing this I realise there has to be a dommy mommy. A tall big tiddy dommy mommy, his face is barely on the level of her tits. He doesn't know that others do actually notice how he's often standing on his toes while talking with her, in his perfectly polished little office shoes. She has a honey soft voice, a smile that's simultaneously mocking and indulgent, red lipstic that leaves an obvious mark, and a soft spot if unpleasant, sneezy little men, especially when they are a little bit knocked off balance)

And when someone inevitably does come down with his cold, he will comment, again with an ill-tempered smile: "Oh so-and-so, sounds like you're coming down with a cold, hope it's not a too nasty one! Attschoo! Attschuu!" And so on.

Needless to say, during the cold season he runs by far the sickliest office in the county/kingdom/whatever.

[poor-darling]

Pick Three Words #11

Pick Three Words prompt from @sneezycold19

Gender: male Three words: drama, beyond, drift Cause: illness Character(s): Jamie, Thomas

Note: Jamie is from my Pick Three Words #2 ficlet.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

The sounds coming from Jamie could only be described as "soupy." Each liquid sniffle and sneeze teemed with germs, and the cold-stricken redhead watched the damp spray drift through the patch of sunlight to land on the seat as he issued yet another trio of contagious sneezes.

Earlier that week, when Thomas had shown up to the office with a cherry-red nose, Jamie had told him to go home. Yet instead of complying, Thomas had insisted on staying, only to infect pretty much everyone on the team. From the front desk to the break room, Thomas had sneezed uncovered, usually in fours or fives, with long, drawn-out build-ups that made it beyond clear he had enough notice to bury his face in a tissue or even his elbow, had he so chose.

But no.

Jamie had been one of the last victims in the contagion drama, succumbing to Thomas's cold that morning, exactly a day after Thomas had managed to spray Jamie in the face with a series of drenching sneezes while the two had been trying to fix the copy machine.

Usually polite by nature, Jamie had failed to summon a shred of concern as he boarded the bus, sniffling rapidly to keep his nose from running onto his upper lip. Just from the drive to the park-and-ride alone, he had managed to soak through his handkerchief, and he had left the sodden cloth on the passenger seat, deciding if he was miserable, everyone else could be, too.

"Ehhh... ehhhhyhhh...!! Eht'TSCH! Et'DSCHH!! Hh-ehhh-EH'DZSCHHHIEEWWW!"

Copious spray rocketed from him, coating everything around him in an eight-foot radius in obvious contagion. A woman two seats over shot him a disgusted look, but Jamie only sniffled and began building up for another set of soaking sneezes.

[poor-darling]

Somehow, you always seem to be in your respective offices at the same time, and somehow, your fellow professor is always sneezing. Pollen allergies in the Spring and Summer. Some type of plant allergies in the Autumn. Cold after sneezy cold in the Winter.

It's midterms in October, and you return to your little office, tucked in its labyrinth deep in the bowels of a building named after someone who donated money half a century ago. Your office is small, made smaller still by the piles upon piles of books, some haphazardly tucked into shelves, some stacked on various surfaces, at least three propping up one thing or another. There is no window, but then, out of fairness, no one's offices have any windows. There is only the three decades of belongings and trinkets and artifacts of your discipline, all of which have accumulated, like the dust, creating a cozy little space.

Here, you ensconce yourself, grateful your desk is pushed against the wall you share with your fellow professor who cannot stop sneezing. They have caught yet another cold, and if you hold perfectly still, you can even hear the hitching before they launch into a quick double followed by a single, then a low groan.

At times, you have stood in front of their door, eyes skimming the excerpts of poems, the pithy quotes, the three-panel comic so on point with your shared area of study that you cannot help a wry smile. Once, you even touched your fingertips to the door, as if considering a knock, as if... what? To ask them how they are feeling? To offer a fresh box of tissues?

To be invited in. That is how it plays out late at night, when you have your eyes closed in the silken dark. The professor invites you in, voice stuffy, and small talk ensues. This semester's batch of students, the pressure to publish, the constant impingement from the administrators on your academic freedom.

The professor's susceptibility to every cold that brushes against them, however briefly. How a student sneezed on them when turning in a paper, how a stranger sneezed and sneezed on the campus shuttle without covering, how their neighbor sneezed all over the mail they brought by after it had been put in their mailbox by mistake. Everyone so contagious, and the professor doomed to catch each sniffle.

This explanation peppered with sneeze after sneeze, the professor warning you ahead of time, trailing off, hitching desperately, then sneezing three, four, even seven times into their hands before wiping off their fingers and using what must be the last of the hand sanitizer on their desk, obviously for your benefit, as their cold has been ravaging them for days.

In your fantasy, they mumble an apology, clearly embarrassed, and your mood determines the next turn of events. Sometimes, you offer them a handkerchief. Sometimes, you invite them to go home with you. Sometimes, the two of you sit together in companionable silence, a quiet punctuated only by their helpless sneezes, as you both grade papers, though your mind is more on their constant sniffling than the merits of the students' arguments.

And every time they sneeze, they whisper a hushed "excuse me," and you do not know how much more you can take before you bring your mouth to the hollow of their throat.

[poor-darling]

Their sweater might be thick, but you can still hear every little thing. The collar pulled up to cover their mouth and nose, their eyes shiny and blinking - the garment isn’t exactly made for that, yet they keep their grip on the fabric, pinching it just above the bridge of their nose.

And their eyes are expressive, shifting, glistening. You hear a thick, marshy sniffle, and a restrained clearing of their throat, bookended by some more quick snuffles. After some quiet breaths in the warm, blanketed air beneath their sweater, they sniffle again, hard and noisily. Their glazed over eyes have stilled. Looking ahead, at nothing in particular.

It’s slow, the resignation, but visibly all-consuming - there’s the crumpling of their brow, and a lengthy inhale that causes their chest to expand, their spine to straighten. A small shake of the head as their eyes shut.

Their shoulders shudder as they fold into their chest with a bursting, ticklish sneeze, their brow pinching with its necessity. Not daring to lower their sweater collar, they snuffle thickly, once, twice, threeee times, and sigh breathily. In the huff is a sound of dread that can only accompany such soupy sniffles - they know it’s going to happen again.

[poor-darling]

This is part 2 to the sweater post. I originally intended to focus more on mess but I got fixated on the build up. so where were we

-

The thick woven fibers between their fingers have become stiff and cold by the third insistent sneeze directed downward into their sweater, barging through with little patience. They’re intense, sounding dizzying, and the restraint of the outbursts leave them panting, shoulders heaving subtly from their tired form. Though hidden, you can hear their poor nose struggling, only doing its job at the mercy of their immune system - snorting, bubbling, and still seemingly unsatisfied.

They blink rapidly, and catch you looking.

At first, their shining eyes widen a little. Then, seeing your gentle expression, their frame slowly loosens.

“I’b…” There’s a brief pause in which they blink a little, their voice thick and hoarse. They push past it. “Sorry, *sddrff* ‘Scuse be,” they mumble breathily, dismissive of their own state.

They turn slightly, still hiding their nose under their sweater collar. It’s difficult to tell, but it looks like they might sneeze again - their brow is beginning to wrinkle, their teary eyes going distant. This time though, they seem to want to gain control over the haunting reflex.

You listen as their breath shakes, thick sniffles sounding between like cracks in a quivering dam. Each one sounds productive, liquid, and itchy, harsh on tender membranes, drowning their nasal passages and the already wet knitted threshold.

After a very bravely endured seven or eight seconds, you hear a desperate, shallow gasp. You glance over to see their brow is crumpled once again, as they curl in on themself with a rather harsh, involuntarily vocal sneeze. What accompanies the tail end of the release is a wet, gurgly splat of mucus dislodging, bursting and spraying into their already damp sweater.

Immediately they start sniffling hard, blinking frantically, and in the midst of it, you hear a soft groan. They realize they’ve done so out loud - and quickly know that you’ve heard it, as your eyes connect again, then theirs quickly avert.

“Sorry,” they whisper and turn away, snuffling ineffectively into a drenched mess of sweater fabric, the collar still pinched over the bridge of their nose.

[poor-darling]

someone struggling to find a tissue/hanky whilst in the middle of building up to a sneeze. their nose is running, they're sniffling every few seconds, their eyes are watering, their breath is hitching, they're fumbling around in their bag/pockets trying desperately to find something to catch their upcoming sneezes, and just in time, at the very last second, they find a ratty crumpled up tissue and press it to their twitching running nose just barely covering the wet itchy sneezes that explode from their nose.