patheticandmiserable

[patheticandmiserable]

in a bit of a sadistic mood.

in a mood for the burn. the scent of spice burning through your nasal passages. pepper's the obvious, rough kernels setting your delicate nasal passages ablaze, assaulting your most sensitive and receptive flesh with spice, making your nose feel like an inferno.

it hurts, but in the same breath, it inflicts you, horribly, viciously, with an intense need. the burning creates urgency--your nose needs to release, to force it all out, to protect itself from their onslaught, and to do so it will bend your will all the more frantically, drawing you to gasp, in pain and desperation, forcing you to recoil, twitch, to shut your eyes with increasing strength, wincing, tears rushing down your cheeks, snot suddenly dripping from your nose--you sniff out of reflex, only making it worse, delaying the trail by a moment as it continues to running, unabated, pathetically from your nose.

and your breath hitches, shamefully, uncontrollably, unstoppably, little sounds of increasing vulnerability escaping, your voice driven higher and higher, gasping and whining from your lips as the burning gets worse, overtaken by the increasing need to sneeze, until finally, you can't hold it anymore--you don't want to, there's a small part that's relieved--you can't help yourself, sneezing over and over--intense, violent sounds bursting from you, forcing yet more snot pouring from your nose.

you gaze in the mirror, utterly ruined, and from what? a little pepper?

and yet, you hear the shaker again.

[patheticandmiserable]

Snez asks

1) When was the last time you were sick?

2) Do you have any allergies?

3) Do you enjoy your own sneezes?

4) Do you like to be sick?

5) Have you/would you ever try to catch a cold on purpose?

6) Have you told anyone about your kink(s)?

7) Has anyone indulged your kink/have you done the same for anyone else?

8) Do you prefer ___ or ___? (bc we’re all hoes for this question)

9) Favorite symptom besides sneezing?

10) Favorite type of wav? (scenario, loud or quiet, talkie or not…)

Reblog and ask your snezfucker friends

[patheticandmiserable]

A character is running through a train station on a cold, rainy winter day. It's wet and dreary outside, a sharp wind biting at their lungs as they run towards the platform. Their train is leaving in a few minutes. It's the last one heading towards their home tonight so they have to catch it.

As they run, their lungs protest, while the character skitters over the slippery platform just to board the train moments before its departure. They heave and pant, lungs stinging as if a thousand tiny needles had just been shot through them.

It takes a while for them to catch their breath, but somehow, their lungs still feel raw and itchy, causing them to cough and clear their throat a lot. And all because they are so unfit, but had to run in the cold night air.

And perhaps because of the nasty headcold, they don't know is coming. Yet...

[patheticandmiserable]

I babygirlify him when I draw him from memory

[patheticandmiserable]

Right now ADORING the....hmmm idk even what to call it. The "character on the run in an unfamiliar city, trying to survive out on the streets while remaining anonymous, forming NO connections whatsoever and going at it completely alone because for whatever reason they can't trust anyone -- anybody could be one of Them -- so they grit their teeth against the cold, the fear, the sheer loneliness of their situation as long as they can....until of course they get injured or sick badly enough that they *need* to rely on someone else despite their suspicion.....

[patheticandmiserable]

The quiet misery of a slowly rising fever. Before the full onslaught of symptoms where subtle chills creep up on them, at first easy enough to blame on the weather or a draft in the room - until it settles under their skin where none of the extra layers can reach.

At work or an event the hours drag on through a growing haze. Longing to wrap themselves up, not sure why they suddenly feel so heavy or why everything - lights, the brush of fabric on their skin - seems sharp and jarring. And its cold. They clench their jaw to keep their teeth from chattering with the unexpected shiver. Strange, they think, the last time they felt this bad was when... Oh.

[patheticandmiserable]

Maman

[patheticandmiserable]

Nothing like getting hyperfixated on a new character and burning through every sickfic you can find of them on the internet

[patheticandmiserable]

I’m gonna scream /pos

The most eloquent of all asks:

alastor, but sneezing.

“hektz-zztshu!”

A stuttering of static. An immediate response, reflexive in nature, to nature, because of nature. Bulbs bathing him in blinding white light, fickle rays of sunshine poking through the fog of doom and gloom; a simple camera flash, or sometimes, the unluckiest reflection in crystal clear glass. Stealthy attackers who follow no order or pattern, having no rhyme or reason. Sizzling tickles taking root in a blink of an eye; a flicker of lightning caught in the crook of an elbow, if not drawn to the ground.

“tsshhk-kshu! –zzkt’xtchu! … haeht-kksshew!”

Always an aftershock, and never too satisfying; the embers linger, a shadow of their former strength, a constant annoyance for those craving power.

“iehh-hh-hih… hheh-h… … ehheih’hh’h! hah-h… hihh-HihhH-HHEH! HIIET-TZZKXT’CHIUE! hehh HhEEHehHHH– EHHKSXZZ-ZHHSHU! hah–! HAH–!! HAEDKT-KDSHHIEW!”

Torrential, choppy breaths, a calm before the storm. The tickle laps at his nose, teasing at the sensitive flesh with angled, precise flicks of an invisible feather. Microscopic particles floating freely through the air, dreamlike romanticism in black and white films, brushing against his sinuses with delicate yet raging passion. False promises, false starts, the crescendo teetering on its beginning notes. His handkerchief a white flag, and the itch, a reckless fighter to the end. The storm passes in time, leaving murky, sludgy water in its wake, just enough to strip away the joy of a deep breath.

"...tszzh!"

Showers may come and go, a fine mist here and there should he leave the dust behind. He often does, turning on his heel with his nose cloaked by a firmly bent elbow. The longer he stays, the more violent the tickle, its permanence never quite fading even after his escape.

“... tssh! … eh’ttsh! … … nnxzzt– zzkt– tsszkt– teehHHhshiue! hedt’tshhHIUE! ahh-hhih, hihh, hieh! kshh- shhzzhtktzhu!”

An uninvited guest during a small, intimate gathering. An event calling for silence, for chivalry, for well-mannered responses when he expects total control. An irritant hanging in the still air - perfumes, and at times, the sharp pungency of bleach or ammonia. A fine tuning of a specific frequency, tiny and measured adjustments, interrupted by an impatience uncontained. The caress of a prickly vine, wrapping around once, twice, until it captures him in full, the tickly stabs made unbearable under pinched fingers and self-imposed pressure.

“ieh’hh… this again…?”

The recurrent solicitor, clawing for his attention during times of rest. The rare moments with his back slumped into plush upholstery, his eyes closed, a smile so soft one might mistake it for kindness. His neat drink clattering against polished wood, hands fumbling for a lazily discarded handkerchief he foolishly thought he'd be done with by now. Judgment clouded by the fuzzy caress of one too many indulgences after a thankless day of work, his inhibitions mere scraps of their former, iron-clad selves. An absence of shame, dissolved into a clump of soggy tissues and damp cloth, the very same tented lazily over his nose and mouth.

“heihh… eh’heh… oh,” he sniffles, “don't do this to me– eeee-heh! hhH’HIhh– huhh… not in the mood to be teased like this– HIHH! …? Hhh… huhh–hh… ugh, for heaven's sake.”

His neck bends under the weight of such a heady, taunting congestion, head lulled to the side, subdued by a crackling, staticky sniffle. Pristine manners scrubbed away by the tickly pink tint all along his cheeks and nose. The occasional squeaky hiccup breaking free from his dwindling, drunken resolve, attention trained on the ever-mocking itch he idly tries to fan out with his slender hands. If luck takes his side, finally, the end of a lone claw will stealthily scratch the tip of his twitchy nose just right, and he'll finally…

“hhAHHht-zhshhkt–tshzzk– hheihHH-HETK’ZSHIEW!” Hastily caught in a bunched up fistful of cloth.“hH-HÆSSZZTCHÚ!”

In the privacy of his personal quarters - then and only then - he blows his nose, the occasional yelp of a stifle interrupting the snappy flow of relief. Pleasurable enough to beckon forth an airy chuckle, a shake of his head at the ridiculous display for his audience of one.

“Really went all out with that one, didn't you?” Alastor allows himself a sniffle of a reset. “Quite refreshing to let loose once in a while, if I do say so myself.”

Best to enjoy the simplest of freedoms, he figures. However fleeting they may be.

[patheticandmiserable]

One "Small" Problem [Haz/bin Ho/tel; Al/astor; unedited]

“A reminder to all,” Alastor's voice cuts through the air, “not to mess with the Radio Demon.”

Especially when said demon can stretch and extend his body into something akin to a giant wendigo-like creature, almost big enough to rival his ego. Slithering through the double doors and towering over the dozens of sinners doomed to become pleasant little snacks of skewered meat and delicious cries of terror for Alastor to snack on. An unfortunate reality made worse by his voracious appetite for blood and flesh; messy slashes and stab wounds to ensure they all end up in his mouth after an unintentional two day fast. Damn that blasted cold and whatever other potential bugs Angel Dust dragged into the hotel after a day of… eugh, he can't think about that right now. He just got his appetite back, and Alastor's not about to lose sight of his first meal after suffering through countless hours of throat-tearing coughs and impossibly stuffy sneezes.

Absolutely miserable, he thinks as he swallows his next victim. Cursed with his era-appropriate and weak immune system… even the slightest case of the sniffles can knock him on his ass and out of commission. At least he can–? A-at least he… h-heh…

“Oh,” Alastor breathes, “th-that's unfortunate.”

If he focuses enough, surely, he can hold it back. What else is he to do? Let the delectable, tender sinner dangling from his pinched fingers go free? Absolutely not, nor is he about to sneeze on his food; mucusy, germy mist can't possibly make for tasty seasoning. His free hand squishes the left side of his nose shut, a sizable knuckle kneading away at the tickle with vicious precision. Fueling it, perhaps, stoking the itchy flames from top to bottom with every swipe and rub. Neglecting the other half of the tickle gnawing away at his dwindling resolve, nothing but an indiscreet sniffle failing to snuff out the thriving irritation.

“F-fuck me-eeh-hee…"

A huff of defeat whisks away another demon. Alastor can't even enjoy their startled shouts, too caught up in the echoing hitches of his breath. Through bleary eyes and that dreaded post-cold haze of fatigue, he tries, in vain, to find the least embarrassing path for his shameful display of undignified, disgraceful glimmer of humanity. Stifling into his shoulder risks the state of the hotel behind him. Residents to his left - god, they're already gawking - hors d'oeuvres fleeing to the right. Fuck.

“eiih-hih!” A storm cloud of static muffles the pitiful vocal inflections straining from his parted lips. “hehhHH!” Oh no, no, God, he can see himself in his mind's eye, jaw going slack, eyes fluttering shut, the occasional, visible twitch of his nose. The way his shoulders shake and shudder as the tickle builds to new heights. “ieh-hhHh…?” His palm hovers in front of his face, unsure and hesitant because hey, he's in the middle of eating; sneezing into the hand that feeds him? Disgusting. Pinching his nose would only make a bad situation worse, trading a sneeze or two for an extensive (and massively unsatisfying) string of stifles. His coat? Nope, he has to shrink back down to size, and that would just be disturbingly damp against his skin. His handkerchief… didn't change, wouldn't cover even a quarter of his itchy, twitchy, tickly– yeeh–hheeh!

“Oh, do pardon me-eehe’heh! Hehht-hh!” Alastor gestures with the sinner between his fingers, waving Charlie and company back into the hotel. Not because he cares! Not about them, no, but his reputation! He'd never hear the end of it, you see– “ee-eh! Ha-haave to– hehh! To– hhEIH!”

Alastor tries to kneel, at least, the crook of his elbow the only option he's willing to entertain. Or would entertain, at least, if the next gusting hitch didn't challenge his balance, demanding he catch himself with his free hand.

"hehh-hht! hh’HHH–! H’HAET-TSZZZHIUE!”

More screams. Startled cries. Shouts of disgust as a fine mist rains onto a crowd of unwilling and future victims. “Ehh’HHT’TCZZH– T’ISHKT– TEHHTZ-ZZSHHHIEW!”

A crash, shattering windows, hopefully not those of the hotel. A stray tendril of shadow impales another…something. He can't tell, too caught up in the blissful relief.

“iehh-hhHH– HESZZXTTCH–T’SHHZK– HAH!-HAAÆETZZ’SHUU!”Alastor sniffles, wincing at the crackles of static and congestion as he swallows a groan of satisfaction. A fleeting state, the solace of finality giving way to the torturous reality blinking back into view. Wide-eyed demons turning on their heels (immediately scooped up by another shadow tentacle), a concerned Charlie cupping her hands around her mouth to ask him if he's okay (god damn it), rubble and debris scattered in front of him, all cloaked in a haze of… of… oh dear.

Alastor stares into the middle distance, his meal scattering in all directions, their silhouettes swallowed by the greedy expanse of agitated dust. His nose twitches, and Alastor's shoulders fall in acceptance.

“Fffuck.”

A reminder to all: The Radio Demon is, in fact, allergic to dust. Do with that what you will; you'll regret it when he eats you. Or sneezes on you. Both, probably. He isn't about to stop any time soon.

[patheticandmiserable]

If you haven’t yet read @allergyenthusiast ‘s fic Won’t Admit It, you’re wrong

Couldn’t decide on a rendering, so other color versions below the cut

[patheticandmiserable]

Hi Miz! Just wanted to that I am extremely fond of the way you draw the deer man. You make him look so adorably cuddly and miserable at tge same time T-T

Thank you for feeding this fandom!

I noticed a lack of A/lastor content and decided that I needed to fix that

I love him so much… I want to throw him into a frozen lake and see what happens to him

[patheticandmiserable]

.... can we have more doodles?

There will be more eventually! I’ve been working on art for the main blog lately

[patheticandmiserable]

echoing the anon, your Alastor art makes me happy too :>

[patheticandmiserable]

Alastor Headcanons?

I should probably keep a list of headcanons so I don’t forget any-

Let’s get the common ones out of the way: snz sounds like static, dust allergies, loses control of his magic when sick, hates looking vulnerable or weak

He doesn’t handle cold weather well. I think Hell can jump from extreme heat to extreme cold and can literally freeze over during winter. He avoids going outside when it’s cold because he’ll inevitably get sick if he’s out there for any extended period of time.

He doesn’t like rain because, again, it’s cold, but it also messes up his hair and soaks into his fur.

Speaking of fur- most of his body is covered in short fur that blends in with his skin tone. And he definitely has a tail. He’s soft and fluffy because I said so.

He usually goes to Rosie when he’s sick or injured. He loves when she takes care of him. She makes him feel safe and comfortable, though he won’t easily admit it.

He generally does a good job of hiding when something’s wrong with him—until he overworks himself and ends up making his problems worse. He’ll work until he collapses from exhaustion (or blood loss, or fever, or whatever else) because he doesn’t want to admit that he needs rest.

He doesn’t care about getting other people sick, unless it’s one of the few people he’s close to. He usually only covers because it looks polite.

He does need sleep—at least a little—but he does not get as much sleep as he should. What is he even doing at 3 in the morning? Idfk

The voice filter malfunctions more the more sick he is (this also affects how his snz sounds)

[patheticandmiserable]

Your Alastor art makes me so happy bro

("bro "used in a non-gender specific way just in case lol)

AAA THANK YOU 😭

[patheticandmiserable]

New poll!

Following on from this one: https://www.tumblr.com/whump-and-suffering/762295307863277568/so-apparently-i-sneeze-more-than-70-of-the?source=share

Not counting e.g. trying to clear out contagion with a long inducing session. But if you have to look into a light or rub your nose a bit to get some of them out they still count (congestion sometimes makes me need to sneeze and then lose it...)