#matilda3948

[bigsnzstanacct]

Okay anon who wrote in about an actor having to sneeze during an interview or something to that effect, it won’t let me answer your ask but here is what I wrote!!

First off, before I talk too much, the great @matilda3948 once wrote almost exactly this scenario as a commission for me and whew it was… very very hot. So Im sure I won’t do justice to that but here’s my attempt…

Everybody who’d ever watched, cut, or lived through a blooper reel on one of his projects knew Irving had a loud sneeze. Like, really loud. Like, cover your ears and maybe your head til the storm passes loud. Like, why is a bear bellowing all the way from the woods to the Warner lot and why does it sound like it’s right by my ear loud. But for all that he enjoyed, even perhaps leaned into his loud sneezes when it didn’t matter, he prided himself on never having been inescapably overcome in a moment when it would actually affect something negatively. It was something like a mental block—he always managed to squelch or ignore or forestall the urge in the middle of dramatic takes, fancy panels, major interviews, etc. Now, would he blow eardrums out in the green room backstage? Yes. Had more than one fan recorded him roaring it out the second he was away from a mic, as loud as though he’d been right on it? Absolutely. But had he actually interrupted anything significant? No, no he hadn’t.

Until today.

He was doing his best to smile through the urge, but he hadn’t properly answered a question in the past five minutes. Normally he’d be jumping in, tagging funny jokes at the end of his co-stars comments,

But here he was, in the middle of the panel for The Ocean’s Roar, afraid to speak a single syllable for fear that his barely-held-in sneeze would rapidly become not-at-all-held-in, and in fact would become loudly-suddenly-and-dramatically-released. Shit. He hadn’t felt like this since college, sitting through exams trying not to erupt and put the other students off their concentration. And his sneezes had gotten worse since then. He’d become a dad since then. He didn’t want to believe it, and it was probably just getting older but he could swear that as soon as he had kids, his sneezes went nuclear. He’d always had loud sneezes, but he swore even he’d never be as absolutely thunderous as his dad was… and then he’d turned thirty-five, had kids, and nearly blown his own eardrums out.

His sneezes had only gotten bigger since then.

Four seats to Irving’s left, Ja’Marcus King was leaning forward into the mic when he caught sight of Irving and his nose.

“Aw hell…” Ja’Marcus chuckled into the mic, “storm’s brewing!”

The whole cast looked, and as soon as Ja tipped his head in Irving’s direction, the whole panel started chuckling.

“Uh… Irving, do we need to put out a storm warning?” One cast member joked.

“To those of you in the audience, you might want to put in your earplugs if you’ve got em.” Another laughed, dramatically putting her hands over her ears.

At this point Irving was chuckling to himself, even as the itch in his nose was demanding nearly all his focus. “C-cut a guy some sl-slack, I wasn’t g-gonna… gonna…” but talking was only making it worse. Way worse. He couldn’t help it. Irving had a deep, heavy voice. A resonant voice. And right now all that resonance was making the buzzing in his nasal cavities ever more buzzy… so buzzy that… he was… he couldn’t… he had to…!

“He’s gonna blow!” Ja’Marcus laughed, before fully hiding under the table (100% commitment to the bit, always), just as Irving gave in to his nose’s demands:

“HHHHHAAAAAAARRRRRRRRSSSSSSCCCCCHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” He bellowed, thankfully away from his own mic, but it wasn’t as though nearly every mic in the building couldn’t pick it to some extent, the squealing feedback a high-pitched aftershock to the thunder of his Irving’s sneeze.

“S-sorrrryyyguys… o-onemooohHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTCCCCHHHHHHUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! HEhhHHHHHH… agaihHHHHH… HHHHHHHEEETTTTTTSSSCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOO!!! Damn, sorry y’all something really tickled my nose.”

The crowd laughed, Irving was so embarrassed he’d swear you could see the warm blush even underneath his dark skin, and Ja’Marcus warily emerged from the table, clinging to the mic like a survivor of a storm: “is he done?”

The crowd laughed again, even harder this time, and Irving just rolled his eyes and grinned an embarrassed grin. “Sorry again y’all… just… allergies. And I’m done, Ja—are you done?”

“With the bit?” He shot back, “never.”

“And that, ladies and gentlemen,” cut in the moderator, “was The Ocean’s Roar. Nice job, Irving, really living up to your character today” he joked.

And as the panel got back to normal, Ja’Marcus smirked to himself. He knew he’d find a cologne that would set off the big guy sooner or later. This was going to be fun…

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Happy birthday week!! 2, 6 and 18 from the writer ask list, please?

Thanks, fren :) And thanks for sending some questions!!

Fan Fic Writer Asks from this list:

2. Do you read/reread your own fics?

ALL. THE. TIME. Like, probably an inordinate amount. Firstly because I'm biased but I love my OCs so much and I miss them if I don't revisit them. And secondly, because sometimes there's an itch that needs to be scratched that only you can scratch for yourself, ya know? I write what I like reading, so I guess it stands to reason that my writing is some of my favorite lol. But maybe that's just me.

6. Are there any fics from others you reread all the time?

There are some authors here on snzblr that I read any fic they put out, as I'm sure many of us do. Some of my faves haven't posted in a long time, though, and seem to have left Tumblr in general, so that makes me sad. But as far as a specific fic, there is one I come back to time and again: I'm Still Mad at You by @matilda3948. That one hits so many buttons for me, and it's a delightful multichap that made me squeal with joy every time it was updated. Will never get enough of that one. I have it saved in my drafts for easy access.

18. What's one of your favorite lines you've written in a fic?

Hm, that's tricky. If I find a wording I like I tend to reuse it in several places. Skimming through for a specific quote that I like, though, I came across this one in a fic with my fantasy adventuring party:

"What are you doing up? You’re not on watch tonight.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Too much cold.”

“In the air or in your nose?”  

“Definitely both," came the rueful answer.

[coldsandfluff]

Tag Game

Thank you to @matilda3948 for tagging me!

The game is such:

List your top three whump tropes and tag people.

Whoever gets tagged gets to say how they feel about your top three tropes.

After finishing that, they then list their top three tropes, and the tagging cycle goes on!

@matilda3948‘s tropes:

1. Stoic Man (Finally) Admits Defeat. Give me an executive, a spy, a lawyer, etc. doing everything in his power to avoid admitting he’s caught a cold. I want him doubling down and wearing the nicest suit he owns, snapping at people who ask if he’s okay, turning down the cup of tea he secretly really wants. Have him go down swinging, until his symptoms get so bad he has no choice but to admit defeat.

I do LOVE a man in a suit with a rotten cold who just will. not. admit it. There’s something so lovely about someone who is usually 100% in control of themselves and everything around them that succumbs to something as small as a cold.

2. Crying. Someone who feels so bad they begin to cry (from frustration, embarrassment, exhaustion, or because their body is just beyond their control). It makes their nose run more, their eyes get red and irritated. That poor person needs lots of tissues and hugs.

I have to be honest, crying doesn’t do much for me! I can see how you would like it though. It definitely has similar “side effects” as an illness/allergy, but the only whump I personally like is a temporary illness. Which, honestly, sucks because it’s so narrow...

3. Work Leads to Illness. M or F on this one for me. Love a workaholic who neglects themselves to the point of getting ill. They’re not sleeping enough or eating correctly so, of course, they get sick. Their caretaker gets to give a loving lecture on self care and drags them away from work to tuck them into bed.

YES, YES, YES. One of my most favorite tropes! The overworking-yourself-into-a-cold is always a winner in my book, and bonus points for the care-taker mentioning it.

My tropes:

1. A Very Important Person who shouldn’t care about someone’s cold, but does. Like a CEO, a doctor, a huge celebrity... Just someone who obviously has way more important things to care about than the sickie’s cold (because the sickie isn’t part of their inner circle, like an employee or an assistant), but turns out to be a very caring person and goes out of their way to make sure the sickie is well taken care of. And if they’re the grumpy type, they do it in a grumpy way and won’t acknowledge it, but you can totally tell they’re a sweetheart underneath it all. Love it.

2. A cold that develops slowly. You get to witness every stages of a cold through the character. The scratchy throat they think is just dehydration. The nagging headache they ignore. The first few sneezes that are probably just from dust or something. As it progresses, the sickie realizes they’re sick, but they can still go about their business without people noticing; they still have about a day where they can hide it, maybe go to the bathroom to blow their noses, down a whole bottle of Dayquil, anything. But there’s always that one perceptive and ultra caring care-taker that puts all the little signs together and forces the sickie to slow down and rest.

3. The forehead feel from two people who have just met. I know this one is not for everyone; some people don’t like to be touched, let alone be touched by someone they barely know, but there’s something so endearing to me about two people who are just starting to get to know each other, for example on a first date, and one of them is running a fever but trying to hide it, and the other realizes it, hesitates for a second, then places their hand on the sickie’s forehead without a word. And then of course the delicious “You’re burning up,” or “Thought so,” or “You’re sick, aren’t you?” or “You feel a bit warm, let’s get you home,” or... I could go on forever. There’s just an added warmth for me when the person isn’t super close to the sickie, but cares just as much and is just as concerned as someone who is.

As always, I probably rambled on way too much! I’d like to tag @shelikescolds, @feelingthefever & @ineedmysickfix, but no pressure at all if you don’t feel like doing it!

[shironezuninja]

Dammit. Why did a fanfiction writer on here have to lock up all her James Bond stories that aren’t on a pleasurable forum site? C’mon, @matilda3948.

[hachiibun]

❗ PLEASE NO REBLOGGING TO NON-KINK BLOGS ❗

Commission for @matilda3948

Thank you for commissioning me!

[mongooseblues]

it just keeps saying “no content found” 😣

You could also find it by going to @matilda3948 ‘s profile and scrolling down to 198 days ago when it was originally posted (and passing more lovely content on ur way down 💕). Anon I am dedicated to helping you find this lol.

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Better Now

A Bla/ck Tap/es podcast sickfic.

I have so many wonderful prompts in my inbox but the only thing I  wanted to write was this wildly self-indulgent and overly long fic that's jam-packed with all my favorite tropes. I blame @matilda3948 for her recent amazing Dr. Strand sickfics for inspiration and @sanquintina for getting me into the podcast in the first place

This is technically Bl/ack Ta/pes fanfic, but you don't need to know anything about the series other than Dr. Strand is a persnickety, serious, stoic, skeptic with a very deep voice and troubled past. 

Set after the end of the series as it stands currently and written in 1st person from the perspective of Strand's unnamed female partner. Could be Alex if you want, could be someone else with whom Strand finally found happiness and contentment. I kept that part generic on purpose.

Richard Strand is many things, but clumsy isn't one of them. So naturally I had to go investigate when early one morning I was startled by the sound of a tea mug shattering on the floor followed by a hastily bitten-off swear word.

In the kitchen I found my husband, the world renowned Dr. Strand, kneeling on the floor mopping up spilled tea. He glanced up with a sniffle as he heard me approach.

"Had it too close to the edge. At least it missed my pants. I think I got all the ceramic bits, but be careful."

His voice was even deeper than usual, low and gravelly from the cold he'd been developing over the past few days. That, paired with his heavy, reddened eyes and generally haggard appearance, gave me concern.

"You look like you hardly slept. How are you feeling?"

"I tossed and turned a bit last night. Couldn't get comfortable."

"Couldn't breathe I think would be more accurate. You were snoring and breathing through your mouth all night."

He sat back on his heels and frowned. "Sorry if I kept you up."

"You don't have to apologize. I'm just worried about you," I added as he winced when he stood, massaging the space between his eyebrows.

He shot me another irritated glance. "I'm fine. I just have a bit of a cold." I couldn't help but notice the weary slump of his shoulders, however. Even his suit looked less crisp than usual. 

I summoned all my wifely tact and tried to make my voice persuasive: "Maybe you should stay home. You don't look like you'll be much use to anyone today."

He made an annoyed sound. "That's very unnecessary. I'm not staying home for a cold."

I looked pointedly out the window where a chilly November rain was pouring down steadily. "You really want to go out into that when you have a perfectly valid excuse not to?"

He too glanced out the window. After a moment he shook his head and cleared his throat, meeting my eyes again. "I'll be fine. It's just a little rain."

He headed toward the door, massaging his forehead once more.

"Don't you want your tea?"

"Oh, right." He whirled around quickly, grabbed the thermos, and headed toward the door again with a wet sniffle. I could only roll my eyes and sigh as the door closed behind him.

Most workdays I left after him and returned before him, and this Thursday was no exception. The rain was still pouring down when I arrived home from work that evening. I decided dinner was going to be vegetable stew and biscuits, not only for his cold, but also because I wanted some rainy November comfort food. Everything was nearly ready when I heard him coming up the steps. He opened the door, bringing with him a chilly gust, and I turned to greet him, but instead my mouth dropped open a bit at the sight of him. 

His hair and clothes were completely soaked with rain, to the point of dripping puddles onto the floor as I watched, and he was visibly shivering, something I'd never seen him do before. Inexplicably, he was also shaking the loose drops off of his soaked umbrella, his expression drawn and miserable. I was noticing how diminished he seemed when suddenly his breath hitched violently:

"HehZIHH'shiew! HrrUUHHZchoo! HehhGIHH'nkkchoo!"

I rushed to his side, relieving him of his umbrella and briefcase and pulling his sodden coat off of him as he slumped down onto the nearby stool. Beneath the coat, his suit was nearly just as wet and cold.

"Oh, Richard, bless you! You're soaked to the skin. Ugh, and your hands are freezing. How did you manage to get so drenched?"

"A w-woman and her ch-children were w-waiting for the b-bus without c-coats. I held my umbrella f-for them until it c-came," he said, his teeth chattering and his lips blue with cold. 

I toweled off his hair and clothes as best as I could before helping him undress. Any other day he would have brushed me off, saying he was perfectly capable of doing that himself. The fact that he allowed me to assist him spoke volumes to how poorly he felt. 

I was behind him, trying to peel off his sodden linen shirt when he lurched forward for another volley of sneezes:

"HrrUUSCHH! HnnxXT! HHGGTchh!"

"Bless you again, poor love. You've made your cold worse going out in this," I gently chastised.

"I'm f-fine," he sniffled, still barely able to speak around his shivering. Yet he leaned back against me wearily as I removed his undershirt and replaced it with a blanket, and I thought I heard the softest hint of a groan.

I used my fingers to comb his disheveled hair, but frowned when I felt his forehead. "You're running a fever. You weren't feverish this morning."

He merely shrugged, wordlessly asking me to continue massaging his scalp, which I did. Slowly his shivers subsided, but he was clearly exhausted, and sniffled wetly every few moments. 

"You look like you could use a hot drink and a warm bed," I said eventually.

"I'd start with a hot shower," came the mumbled reply.

"Hmm… what about a hot bath? I was thinking of taking one myself tonight, and I'm willing to share. No reason to waste the hot water. Dinner will keep for a bit longer."

He turned slightly, giving me a curious look. It wasn't that we had never bathed together before, but it was usually under very different circumstances. However, I happened to know my husband craved physical touch when he wasn't feeling well, though he would never ask for it. I was simply making life easier on both of us by preemptively offering it. 

"I suppose that might be nice," he finally said. "But I'm very tired…."

I kissed his cheek. "No strings attached. Bath only. Then dinner and sleep. No funny business, I promise."

He relaxed slightly. "That's fine then."

"Good. Let me go run the water." I kissed his hair once more, then headed to the bathroom. He joined me there with a cup of tea after a few minutes. While the oversized tub finished filling, he leaned in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck and looking distant and hazy, not to mention sick.

I shimmied off my clothes and slid into the water, gesturing for him to join me. He sluggishly obeyed, hampered in finishing his own undressing by his dripping nose. He set his mug of tea and a handkerchief on the little table beside the tub, then slid into the water in front of me.

His sigh of ecstasy as the hot water surrounded him was exactly what I hoped to hear, and he leaned back against me readily with a satisfied groan.

"Better?" I murmured in his ear.

"Much," came the rumbling reply, followed of course by a sniffle. 

I pressed my lips into his hair again and again. He hardly moved as the heat soaked into him. I let my nails trail all over his skin and gave him a gentle massage, trying to help him relax, a feat he was rarely able to accomplish on his own

"Would you like me to wash your hair?" I murmured after a while.

He gave the barest nod in reply. Wordlessly I did just that, something else he would never consider allowing in any other circumstance.

I kept the soap far from his face, but the fragrance still had its way with him. I had nearly all the suds rinsed out when he suddenly jerked forward and leaned over the edge of the tub.

GihhIIISSHH'UH! Hhigg'CHUH! HihYEHSH'ooo!" He directed the spray as far away from me as he could, grabbing for the handkerchief to catch as much of the mess as possible. He mopped his face with a growl as he slid back into the water, but the spell was broken. He fidgeted against me, sniffling in irritation again and again as I finished rinsing his hair. 

I suppressed a disappointed sigh. "You might feel better if you went and laid down now that you're warmed up. Get yourself a bowl of soup while I finish up here."

He grunted his assent, lifting himself out of the water and quickly toweling off as he began to shiver again right away. He donned his robe, took his tea, and went to get his supper.

The evening came to a quick close after that. Richard ate a small portion of soup, drank two mugs of tea, and refused any medication, but did little else. He wouldn't be described as loquacious on his best day, but he spoke even less than usual. The only noise he made was the occasional soft cough or explosive trio of sneezes and his perpetual sniffles as he attempted his usual evening reading. His eyes never lost their weary, hazy look though, and he was constantly shaking his head or wiping a knuckle under his nose, so I wondered how much he was actually absorbing.

When I suggested we go to bed, he didn't argue though, which was very unlike him. He fell into bed wearily, and it seemed he was asleep even before his head hit the pillow. I silently wished to myself as I drifted to sleep that he would either be recovered in the morning, or else have the sense to stay home if he was worse.

~~~~~~~~~~

Richard's alarm went off at the usual hour the next morning, and he shut it off right away. Normally he was out of bed in moments, but today he lingered, pulling the blankets closer around himself with a little groan.

I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but he continued to shift restlessly. After a moment, I heard him take a wheezy inhale and then break into a coughing fit, wet and hoarse. I turned to look at him again. He was on his back now, with an arm flung over his eyes.

"Aww, love," I murmured. "You ok?"

"I'm not feeling quite like myself," came the mumbled reply.

I reached out to stroke his cheek, letting my hand rest on his neck where I could feel his hugely swollen lymph nodes. He was well and truly sick now, and he needed to stay home from work. However, I couldn't be the one to suggest that, or else he would turn me down immediately and insist he was fine, as he had the day before. It needed to be his idea. I went with a different approach.

I nestled close to his side, kissing his shoulder softly. I could tell he was still feverish even through his clothes. "Busy day today?" I murmured.

He grunted wearily. I couldn't tell if it was affirmative or negative.

"I packed a big bowl of soup for your lunch. I hope it's enough to keep you full through the whole day. And don't forget, I'll meet you at your coworker's reception tonight. Was there anything I needed to bring to that?"

He slowly uncovered his face. "I was… actually considering staying home from work. It shouldn't be busy today, I can afford to miss. And… I'm really not feeling well at all. I'll make our excuses to John about his reception. 

I did a silent victory dance in my head. "Oh, are you sure? I thought you had some important meetings."

"Nothing that can't be rescheduled." He cracked a red eye open, glancing at me suspiciously. "Why? Do you want me to go in?"

I shrugged nonchalantly, kissing him again. "I want you to do what you think is best. If you're not feeling well, you ought to stay home so you don't risk getting other people sick though."

"I suppose." He coughed hoarsely again, rubbing his chest with a grimace. "Yes, I'll stay home today. Let me call Carol and John."

He slowly stood and made his unsteady way to his phone, sniffling and coughing the whole way. The two phone conversations were very brief, for he hardly had to try to make a case for his illness, congested and hoarse as he clearly was. After he finished the calls, he shuffled back to bed immediately, heaping the blankets back over himself with a shuddering cough. I rubbed his back as he got settled.

"Can I get you anything, hon? Water, medicine?"

He shook his head. "Going to try to sleep this off," he mumbled, sleep already (or still?) heavy in his voice.

I knew medicine would almost certainly help his endeavors at sleeping. At minimum it would improve the quality of his sleep. However, I also knew he was stubborn about such things, so I didn't press the issue yet. "Alright." I kissed his hot cheek gently. "Then I'll leave you be for now. Let me know if you need anything. Sleep well."

I made the bed around him, straightening my side and tucking him in, then quietly left. The sound of his deep snores followed me out. So much for me sleeping in today.

He emerged again later that morning. I didn't notice him at first when he did, though. I had my headphones in and was dancing around while dusting. Turning around, I almost bumped into him, scaring us both. I yanked my headphones off right away, taking in his disheveled, sickly, blanket-wrapped appearance.

"You're awake! I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come out."

"Clearly," he rasped with the tiniest ghost of a smile. "You stayed home too?"

"It's my normal Friday off."

"Right, right," he sniffled. He then shuffled to the couch, collapsing onto it with a yawn. I went to sit beside him, unable to keep the concern from my face. I felt his forehead again, noting how he wearily leaned into the touch. I was forced to jump back though as he erupted into a volley of thick, chesty coughs. 

I sighed, surveying him with worry. "You're running quite the fever, love. And the cold has obviously settled into your chest now too."

He nodded limply with another sniffle.

"I'm not taking no for an answer this time, I'm giving you medicine and you're going to take it."

He managed to fix me with a condescending look. "Medication for a cold is essentially pointless. It just treats the symptoms."

"You think making yourself more comfortable is pointless?"

He opened his mouth to answer, or so I thought, but instead he lurched forward into a trio of wet, spraying sneezes:

"Heh'YEISSHH'oo! YEEIISH'uuh! Gih'HIH-shoo! --ugh…" The forceful snapping motion of his head when he sneezed looked incredibly painful, so much so that he pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead with a groan in the aftermath.

"Bless you, hon!" I waited a beat as he composed himself. "So… what was it again you were saying about the futility of treating the symptoms?" I asked, admittedly snidely.

He only grunted softly. I couldn't keep the smug look from my face when he met my eyes once more. However, seeing how thoroughly miserable he was reawakened my sympathy immediately. I reached out to caress his hair and cheek yet again.

"How about I make you some tea, yeah? And maybe a bowl of soup?"

"Please," he mumbled.

"Coming right up."

Another round of his thick, exhausting coughs followed me into the kitchen, and I couldn't help but wince in sympathy, even though he couldn't see me.

In a matter of minutes I had his meal ready. When I brought it back out to him, I placed the soup on the table and dropped a handful of pills and a capful of medication beside the bowl with a meaningful look. His only reply was a small frown. I resumed my seat beside him and was about to hand him the steaming mug when an idea occurred to me.

"Is your throat hurting badly?"

He nodded heavily with a little scowl, as if he hated being reminded of it.

"Here, this may help a bit." I raised the mug to the level of his neck, pressing it against his visibly enlarged lymph node.

His eyes widened and he half-jumped back from the initial sensation. 

"Trust me for a sec," I said gently, placing it against the swelling once more.

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, but allowed it. After a moment though he visibly loosened. Making a sound between a whimper and a groan, he leaned harder against the heat. 

"Better?"

"Mhmmmm," he sighed.

After another moment I switched to the other side of his neck and repeated the process. He angled himself here and there to get the most heat coverage over the tender areas. Finally I slid the mug into his hands, kissing his forehead.

"Thank you," he breathed. "That was… relieving."

"You're very welcome. Now, can I do anything else for you at the moment?" 

"I'm fine. You don't need to fuss."

"I may not have to, but I want to, first because you're my husband and second because I know you're not 'fine.' But if you're going to insist you are, I'm going to go fold some laundry. Holler if you need anything. Or cough loudly if that's easier."

That earned me a Dr. Strand signature, the 'amused huff.' "I will. Thank you again."

"No thanks necessary." He received another kiss to the temple before I stood and headed to the laundry room with a last pointed look at the medicine. It occurred to me as I walked away that I was likely giving him an overabundance of kisses considering how contagious he clearly was, but he was just so darn pitiful.

Twenty minutes later, I returned to check on him, bringing a glass of water as well. The tea mug and soup bowl sat empty on the coffee table, surrounded by a few scattered tissues. The medicine was untouched. The doctor was huddled to one side of the couch with another tissue held loosely in his hand and one pajama-clad leg tucked under him, staring listlessly at the wall. However, at the sound of my footsteps he stirred with a sickly sniffle, scrubbing a hand over his face wearily. I smiled in greeting, and though he didn't return the smile, he did brighten a bit upon seeing me.

"What were you contemplating so deeply just now? You looked very lost in thought," I asked, handing him the water, then tidying up his little mess on the coffee table, leaving the pills.

He huffed a humorless laugh, looking self-conscious as he fiddled with the glass. "I was actually imagining how extensive the trial and error process must have been to determine how best to brew tea versus brewing coffee versus, for example, brewing beer. Roasting the ingredients versus drying versus fresh versus ground and boiling versus steeping versus fermenting. The amount of time that must have been necessary to perfect something so simple is rather astounding," he rasped, with many sniffles and throat-clearings thrown in.

I raised an eyebrow at him curiously. Aimless ramblings about random topics were not the norm for my painfully disciplined husband. "It is astounding I guess. I'd never thought about that before. Anyway, how are you feeling after eating?" 

"I'm fine," he said, finally setting down the untouched water, though the nasty cough that immediately followed his statement contradicted him.

This time I audibly sighed. "You do realize that you saying you're fine all the time is very counterproductive to helping me assess your needs? You don't have to be fine, love."

He gave me an odd look. "Conceptually, I know that. But you have to remember, for a long time I *did* have to be 'fine.' I didn't have the option to be otherwise. You, all of this… still feels like a new development or a dream at times. Old habits die hard, I suppose."

I sat on the arm of the couch beside him. He wordlessly leaned in toward me so I could lightly run my fingernails over his scalp. He softly groaned in pleasure.

"I'm not going to waste my breath telling you that I'm not going anywhere and I'm here for you, because you already know that. So I suppose I'll just have to keep showing you." 

I went to press a kiss to his head, but I caught a glimpse of his face and changed my mind when I saw he was about to sneeze.

"Gihh'chuuh! Hehh'choof! Ghnxt'choo!"

The sneezes were brisk and wet and left him breathless. He blew his nose with a wince before he spoke. "Sorry, could you repeat that? I missed most of it," he said, sounding stuffy and a little peeved.

I chuckled and complied, going for the kiss this time. He had no reply, but instead leaned against me wearily as I massaged his neck, yawning deeply. 

"You should rest again, love. Take a nap if you can. It's either that or watch TV, which you'll never do. I'm not sure you should attempt much else."

He wrinkled his nose. "I hate being so unproductive. I don't want to sleep the day away."

"Sleeping when you're sick isn't being unproductive, it's being wise."

"HehhGIH'choo! HEHHH-choo! Hihhh'YESSHH'uuhh!"

I was quite sure he didn't hear most of my statement, since he sneezed right in the middle of it. With a pitiful sound he tended to his nose yet again as I blessed him earnestly. Eventually his watery, heavy lidded eyes met mine. I couldn't help but notice yet again how flushed and disheveled he was and how utterly pathetic he looked, quite the opposite of his usual cool, collected self. 

"Guh. Sorry. What was that?" he asked with a pathetic sniffle, sounding very annoyed now.

"Aww, your nose. You really are sick, huh? Poor guy," I said, continuing to stroke his hair. 

He looked slightly offended. "You were having doubts about that?" 

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. "It's just something you say, dear. 

"I'm aware of the colloquialism," he grumped. "But I find it a very odd one. And it's never been directed at me before."

"There's a first time for everything, then."

I was rubbing his back now. He yawned again, grimacing after, I assumed due to the sore throat. I also noticed he was starting to shiver.

"Ok, now seriously, tell me what I need to do to convince you to nap."

"I'm not sure," he said with a chesty cough, nestling deeper into the couch.

"Hmm. I accept that challenge." 

"And what challenge is that?"

"You won't tell me what I can do to help you, and perhaps you don't even know yourself, so I have to figure that out for both of us."

"I don't think there's anything I need though."

"You need to sleep."

He rolled his eyes with an annoyed huff, but I could tell he knew I was right.

I stood and went to put some smooth jazz on the record player in the room. Sitting down again, this time on the couch on the other side of him, I gestured to my lap.

"Come lie down."

"Wait-- lie down… right there?"

"Correct."

"Why?"

"Because you love hair scratches and neck rubs, so I'm making it easier to give them to you. Also you're apparently freezing and need to share some body heat."

He frowned, suppressing his shivers as best he could. Still, I knew he wouldn't be able to resist for long, tired and miserable as he was. Sure enough, after a moment he slowly levered himself down with a resigned sigh. 

I quickly threw a blanket over him, and then began the hair scratches. He made a tiny, appreciative sound. 

"Better?"

"Mm," he grunted.

"Good. But you're sweating, love," I murmured.

"I'm not sure how since I'm freezing," he mumbled with a cough.

"Your fever is higher. I can feel it just by touching you."

He groaned, snuggling deeper against me.

I massaged his neck for a while longer, trying to ease the tension from his muscles. He continued to be restless though, and apparently unable to regulate his body temperature. One moment he would be shaking with chills pulling the blanket closer, and then the next kicking it away from his legs with a moan of discomfort. 

The final straw for me was when he was overcome with yet another hacking coughing fit, curling in on himself miserably, trying to muffle it into his arm, the other hand clutching his chest.

Before he settled again, I leaned forward to grab the untouched pile of medication and glass of water from the coffee table. When he was again lying against me, I wordlessly held it out to him. He of course made a sound of irritation.

"Why are you being so stubborn? You need to sleep, and you can't sleep in the state you're in, at least not well. This will help your headache, fever, sore throat, everything so you can rest. I can tell you're exhausted."

After a final moment of consideration, he held out a reluctant hand. I handed him the items and he swallowed them without comment.

Neither of us spoke again for a long time, and didn't move from our places. I soothingly stroked his hair or rubbed his back, putting myself in a trance almost as much as him. 

I could see the medication talking effect. His restlessness slowly eased along with his coughing. It seemed I could even feel his body temperature decreasing.

"Hnnkkt'CHUH! Hehgg'CHUHH! EHHG'choo!"

Just as I thought he was asleep, his body twitched with a trio of sneezes, the quality of which could only be described as lazy--slow, thick, and dulled. They hardly seemed to stir him from his stupor.

"Bless you. Are you ok?"

" 'm fine," he croaked tiredly. We were both quiet for a while, then he spoke up again. "You know, one of the reasons I keep saying I'm fine is because I can't begin to describe what an improvement it is to be with you while being sick compared to being sick in bed alone. The difference is as drastic as night and day--better doesn't begin to describe it. Asking for anything more than what I already have just by your being here feels selfish."

Richard would never express such sentiments under normal circumstances, and hearing it said so plainly overwhelmed me with emotion. Yet I knew he wouldn't want me to reply in kind. He would prefer to state his piece and let it be. And indeed, I saw his eyes drooping heavier by the second, so I kept my thoughts to myself for now, but leaned over to plant a series of kisses all over his hot face. 

He hardly moved and didn't respond even when I finally stopped, but I couldn't help but notice the tiny smile playing around his lips as he drifted off to sleep.

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

@sicktember Prompt # 24: Sneezing

Title: Dust and Mold

Fandom: Black Tapes Podcast

@matilda3948 gave me this prompt (among many others) some time ago. The prompt: "Strand and Alex are investigating an old, dusty house for one of their cases. Strand tries to hide his sneezing attack and fails miserably." Glad to be able to use it here! Was obviously written for Sicktember, but I haven’t been able to post it until now. 

What's a journalist to do when her investigation partner can't stop sneezing? Alex helps Dr. Strand while researching a case.

CW: Mentions of death, mentions of paranormal activity/haunting but nothing specific. 

Dr. Richard Strand was the most enigmatic person Alex had ever met or would ever meet again. He was brilliant and fascinating, and he was logical to a fault. He rarely acted on emotion, rarely even showed emotion. In many ways he seemed robotic or alien. For that reason, when he was forced to show his humanity it always threw Alex for a loop.

One such instance occurred on a sunny autumn day. Richard and Alex were doing some preliminary investigations for a new case involving an abandoned house. The last three consecutive owners had died the exact same way in the exact same spot in the house, so the locals were insisting it was haunted. With that rumor came other rumors of course, like knocking sounds and odd lights in the house all hours of the night. No one would step foot inside anymore, so the county owned the house now, and there had been no issue with the pair coming to poke around before the "official" paranormal investigation this evening.

The house was massive, old, and very dusty. After the last owner had been found dead, no one had wanted to come clean out the house, and the owner had no heirs or other family, so everything was mostly as it had been the day he died. Looters had been through a few times to scavenge for valuables, but that was it. The house was unsettling even to Alex, who had seen her fair share of creepy places by now. One definitely had the sense that the house, or some presence within the house, was frozen in time, waiting for something.

Dr. Strand had taken his time exploring the upstairs, especially the area where the owners had all been found dead. He had then proceeded into the basement to try to debunk the knocking noises and lights. Alex had stayed upstairs and was simply exploring the house from a non-paranormal standpoint. She found herself studying the overflowing pair of bookshelves in the living room. The looters had evidently missed the most valuable things in the house, for even her mostly untrained eye could see that there were many valuable books here-- lots of rare volumes and first editions. Yet here they sat, collecting dust and mold (this house especially seemed particularly inclined to grow mold) until they were disposed of or passed along to a new owner. 

"It's so sad to see a person reduced to the things they’ve left behind when they die. And to see a house reduced to just a storage place for stuff,” Alex called out, loudly enough for Richard to hear. He didn’t respond. This wasn’t completely unexpected. She went to stand at the top of the basement stairs, suddenly feeling eager for human company. 

“Have you found anything?” she called again. Once more he did not respond. His not responding to general musings was common; his not responding to direct questions was not. Worry flickered in her heart. 

“Dr. Strand? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he finally said, though his voice sounded oddly strained. She heard a strange squeaking sound, then: “I’m fine.” 

Alex didn’t believe him, and though she hadn’t been keen to explore the basement, she went down anyway. “What are you doing?” she called. 

He again did not respond. She found him in a dim corner of the basement with his back to her. As he came into view, she saw his shoulders twitch and his head snap forward into a desperately stifled trio of sneezes that ended in the high-pitched “gttchh” sound that she had heard while upstairs. 

Alex blinked, surprised. A sneezing Dr. Strand had not been what she expected to find. “Bless you!” she said with a little giggle, regaining her senses. “You scared me. I thought something happened to you.”

He turned to face her, and in the dim light she could see his nose was red and irritated looking. 

“S-hiihh-sorry,” he gasped, his handkerchief pressed desperately to his nose. “So muh-T’CHHUU!-much mold down here,” he croaked. 

“Oh, are you allergic to mold?”

He nodded miserably, his eyelids fluttering closed against his will for another barrage of sneezes: “Huhh’REHHSHHHoo! ESSHHHyoo! Kuh-hh-HUSSHHHoo! Huh’ISSHHoo! Hh-h... huh’KIISHHoo! Heh-hh... Hiihg’KSSHHoo!

“Oh no, oh bless you!” she laughed. “That must be awkward in this line of work.”

Ih… hiih!.. It can be,” he muttered, his eyes streaming and his nose still twitching. “My handkerchief is toh-HNNXT!-totally soaked,” he groaned, holding it out to show her. 

“We have some masks in the case right? Let me go grab one for you.” She darted back up the stairs before he could reply. By the door was the case he brought with him to every investigation, which contained, among many other useful things, a package of N-95 masks for occasions such as this where it probably wasn’t wise to breathe in the air. She grabbed one out, then rushed back down to the doctor and presented it to him. He took it with a grateful look, putting it on immediately. 

“Guh,” he exhaled deeply. “Thank you. That’s much better.” He continued to sniffle and clear his throat, clearing the residual particles from his sinuses. 

“Don’t mention it. Have you ever considered a different line of work, though?” she teased gently.  “It seems like dusty basements are a pretty severe occupational hazard for you. I’ve never seen anyone soak a handkerchief in such a record time.”

He deigned not to reply, but the dirty look he gave her spoke volumes.

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Tag Game

Thank you for the tag @sick-bae I love these things!

The game is such:

List your top three whump tropes and tag people.

Whoever gets tagged gets to say how they feel about your top three tropes.

After finishing that, they then list their top three tropes, and the tagging cycle goes on!

Your tropes: 

1.) Infected wounds - I agree, it absolutely has to lead to a fever. No question. There is a lot of room for interesting dynamics here with injury AND illness without the risk of contagion. And yes, as you said, how the whumpee deals with all of it can be great. Injury whump usually does it less than sickness for me, but this hits the sweet spot :)

2.) Powering through an illness - “when whumpee is sick, but they have a Job to Do and don’t have time to be sick.” Yes this is always good. I love stoic whumpees more than any other type, and these are the whumpees most likely to display this type of behavior. Would also read again and again. Very Good trope. 

3.) Convalescing on the couch/anywhere but bed - Always a winner. I wouldn’t say it’s a favorite for me per se, but a sickfic of any length (AKA the only type I write) naturally leads to convalescing in different areas, so this is a-okay with me :) 

My tropes: 

1. Clothes - What the whumpees attire says about how they’re feeling. How they and their caretakers interact with their clothing. Is it a hindrance or a protection? Wet clothes (with sweat? with rain?), uncomfortable clothes (breeches and cravats and corsets). Chills, making the amount of clothing necessary change rapidly. Hnnng just clothes and how they play into any and every whump scenario. 

2. Contagion - always and forever my favorite trope. The dynamics it brings out between characters. Going from caretaker to whumpee and vice versa. Having to be caretaker *while* being the whumpee. Do they try to mitigate contagion, or don’t care and just want to be close to each other? There is nothing better.

3. Kissing - or really any overly tactile caretaking (I just like the alliteration.) This probably plays into me being a slut for contagion, but I love caretakers who don’t care about getting sick and just want the whumpee to feel loved and cared for, especially if the whumpee keeps protesting and telling them to keep their distance, but finally gives in and just lets themself be loved. 

This was fun. Again, thanks for the tag!

Tagging @chezsnez, @delirious-delilah, @sniction-fiction and @matilda3948  

Feel free to play if you want but no pressure :)