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You’ll Wake The Neighbors! (M, sneezing and nose blows)


Mr. Black Cherry Berry Tea

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This is a story for a friend who, like the main character in this story, suffers from hayfever, enormous sneezes, and even bigger nose blows. This is just part one of two, mostly setup although there is plenty of sneezing and blowing. There will be considerably more holding back and perhaps some slight (chaste!) d/s undertones in part two. I also tried to go for a little undertone of caretaking in this one, which is not my usual MO but something I’m trying to practice. The sneezer of this story is male, but the gender of the narrator is deliberately left ambiguous—imagine whatever you enjoy most.

 

I could hear him down the block.

 

“AAAHHHHCCHHH-HHOOOOOOO!!” The bellow was dimmed somewhat by distance and the walls between us, but I still heard it, clear as day. He’d be winding up for another one now, frozen in place, captive to his big, protruding proboscis. The handkerchief clutched in two hands, spread wide as his head tipped back and back and back until his shoulder got into it, his wide nostrils flaring absurdly as he gasped... and gasped... and gasped... until...

 

“EEEEEEAAAYYYYYATTCCHHOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” Even louder this time! He would have delivered it right into the handkerchief, so that he could transition, seamlessly, fluidly, almost... professionally into the window rattling roar of his great lawnmower honk of a nose blow, sonorous as a trombone, surely so because of the unusual architecture of his cavernous nostrils, which provided plenty of room for the great crashing blow to echo and resound and build in noise. The first great two-nostril honk taken care of, he’d press one nostril shut and blow his trumpet blast out the other, then switch sides, in a sort of aftershock to the first great blow. I could barely even hear them through the walls. But I knew after that would come the last big blow. First, an enormous lung-swelling long smooth inward gasp of air, his shoulders rising, rib cage expanding to let in more and more and more air. Then, a silent moment of preparation, practically like a prayer, his eyes scrunching shut, face flying into the waiting hankie and then...

 

The real foghorn, a nasal blast that dwarfed his sneeze in volume. His “big blows” as we called them existed less to expel moisture or whatever else might be lurking in his nasal passages, and more to cleanse the terrible itch with the sheer sound of it, as though by making his whole sinuses vibrate with the sonorous force of the blow, he could chase that twinging tickle into every nook and cranny of his nose, and in doing so scratch the itch into submission.

 

He’d be walking again now. Would there be another sneeze before he arrived at the door, would he in fact reach the door even as the ragweed and grass pollen and all the terrible floral irritations of spring reignited that desperate desire in him, left the poor exhausted man with no choice but to unleash another:

 

“HEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHSSHHH-OOOOOOOOO!!!” This was an angry sneeze. The sneeze of a man exhausted by his nose and a nose exhausted by the itch. It was the sort of sneeze he released only when he at last forgot about the noise and disruption his nose could cause—did cause, all throughout hayfever season—and could think only of finally relieving the terrible itch. I swung the door open, and was greeted by the sight, no longer in my imagination but in the flesh, of his reddened, dripping nose, his tired, sagging eyes—oh it was so obvious he was in the grips of an absolutely miserable allergy attack, and I could only reach out to him, press him into a tight embrace, even as, over my shoulder, he spread it out—oh, not a handkerchief at all, but one of those big red bandanas he used when his poor nose wore him out, when even his hankies seemed too small and too fragile to stand up to the ferocity of his allergic response. I barely noticed before he crushed his nose into his hand and, uncontrollably, right next to my ear blasted out a honk that I swear nearly made my go deaf. 

 

Of course, if that were going to happen, it would have long since happened by now.

 

“Oh hodey...” he said, sniffing, as he straightened up. “Hodey I’b so sorry bud by dose...”

 

“Shhh, shhh,” I cooed at him, guiding him into the living room and down onto the sofa. “It’s fine, darling, I understand. Your hayfever...”

 

“Id’s terrible!” He announced, as though every centimeter of his face was not making the announcement for him, from the downturn of his lips to his constantly working, practically buzzing nose. “Wud sec godda blow...”

 

He said this with banal literalness—he was going to blow his nose. And yet I couldn’t help but think that “gonna blow” seemed accurate for any and everything pertaining to his nose, which resembled nothing so much as his personal Vesuvius, a volcano always on the edge of an eruption.

 

He held forth with a blow that put the others to shame, or perhaps that was just me being able to appreciate it properly now, neither muffled by walls nor so all-consumingly close that its relative volume was masked. De-stuffed a bit by the blow, he continued: “I had to sneeze so badly all day, darling, you wouldn’t believe it. I hate hayfever!” He said it with conviction, so much so that I couldn’t help but hate it too, even if his hayfever, this particular specimen, also thrilled me. “I don’t know how I got any work done, always having to duck into the bathroom to... t-tuhhh... huuuhhh.... HUUUUUHHHH... HUUUUUAAAAASSSHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!”

 

“To do that?”

 

“Mm.” He replied, congested again. Our flow of conversation ebbed for the moment, making way for his great trumpeting blows, always the same pattern: a great two nostril honk, a series of cleansing blows of each nostril individually, alternately, and then a final great tickle-chasing honk. Although this time even that pattern didn’t seem to be enough. “Cad you ged me adother h-hadker... hadker... hehhHH... AAAASSSSHHHOOOOOOOOOO!!” 

 

He didn’t have to tell me twice, though as I heard the thumping on our ceiling from our neighbor above, already fed up with his nasal exuberance, I couldn’t help but hope, for the sake of peace in our little block of apartments if nothing else, that the next cleansing blow managed to clear out some of that infernal pollen and ease his allergies some.

 

Although, as he heard him snuffling and sniffing, surely hunting for any dry spot left on the great bandana, I didn’t hold out much hope.

 

He’d really had a terrible hayfever day, though it did calm at least somewhat after he’d been home for a while, with our humidifier and air filters all around. He explained that he’d had to sneeze all day at work, constantly ducking into the toilets to let one loose, fighting not to blast one of his rather disruptive and distinctive sneezes in the open office. He’d sworn he wouldn’t be known primarily by his nose, not at this workplace, unlike many of his others. Even then, he hadn’t felt like he could blow his nose, not fully, not properly, even in the toilets. On the bus home, he’d fought not to explode but his hayfever was just unbearable and before he knew it he was belting out sneeze after sneeze, so loud in the enclosed space he was afraid he’d startle the driver or something. The other passengers glaring daggers at him didn’t help. So he’d walked a good deal of the way home, which only succeeded in allowing his big nose to suck up even more allergens, to drive him even crazier with the urge to blow them all out.

 

By that evening, his nose had largely calmed down, its outbursts coming once or twice an hour rather than every few minutes. I gave him the tea that always helped, wiped his face with a warm cloth, did my best to soothe the allergic beast inside him, the little demon of nasal irritation that took up residence in his nose—a spacious abode—that tormented him and took over him body til his whole body used all its force to exorcize the demon in a blasting sneeze or trumpeting blow. There was something nice about it, the feeling that it was we two in a battle against his hayfever. Sure, it was him on the front lines, cajoling and managing and denying and satiating his itchy nose and its allergic demands. But I was there too, supporting and assisting and fetching bandanas and grabbing things out of his hands when a sudden blinding urge to sneeze robbed him of every other thought. I liked helping him in that way. It was plain to see those great galumphing sneezes took it out of the poor man. And though he always seemed pleased, satisfied after a good strong session of blowing, that too must have required energy. He’d tried to teach me on more than one occasion, when I caught bad colds, how to blow my nose as thoroughly and authoritatively as he did. I’d gotten quite a bit better—no longer the sniffer and snuffler I was when we met—but still, I could never quite manage the sheer ferocity of his nose blowing, let alone the power, let alone the volume. He was in another category for that.

 

Of course, that presented its problems. And there was another area in which I could help, in which it was I instead of him on the front lines of battle: the neighbors. 

 

Now we’d been lucky enough to escape complaints in many if not most of the places we lived, though surely his nasal exertions were audible through the walls. And to his credit, most of the year, with the exception of lazy afternoons where gave his nose free reign and let his great bellowing sneezes rip as they pleased, he kept his nose to.... well not quite a polite acceptable volume, but at least a dull roar during quieter hours. But this was our second hayfever season in this apartment. And when hayfever season strikes that nose of his, all bets are off. I thought we’d come to blows with at least two of our neighbors by the end of the season, but although we narrowly avoided that, we did have to speak to the apartment management about noise complaints. They couldn’t, of course, kick us out of our apartment over hayfever. But to keep the peace, we agreed to try our very best to keep the noise down late at night, even during hayfever season. His nose had free reign until ten pm. It would be cruel to expect anything else. But his hayfever was too severe to let him sleep sometimes. I’d been awakened, more times than I could count, with a great bellowing sneeze, a desperate, whispered apology and then a trumpeting nose blow. Half-asleep, it never occurred to him to tamp down the violence... all he could think of was chasing away the terrible itch.

 

So, in those moments where he awoke at night, itchy and sneezy and desperate, it fell to me. Then I took the front lines in the battle against his allergies, or at least the battle to avoid coming to blows with Mr and Mrs Cadwallader upstairs. 

 

I suspected, from the moment I heard him coming down the way to our apartment, that tonight would end up being just such a night. So I’d taken the bandana he normally hid under his pillow and hid it under mine. If he were about to sneeze, even in half-asleep stupor, he’d reach for that, and so it was that I was awakened at 2am, not by his nose, but by his mouth:

 

“—Quickly!! I n-need to snehhh... sneeze!”

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39 minutes ago, Mr. Black Cherry Berry Tea said:

I gave him the tea that always helped, wiped his face with a warm cloth, did my best to soothe the allergic beast inside him, the little demon of nasal irritation that took up residence in his nose—a spacious abode—that tormented him and took over him body til his whole body used all its force to exorcize the demon in a blasting sneeze or trumpeting blow. There was something nice about it, the feeling that it was we two in a battle against his hayfever.

Loved this! 

Looking forward to part 2.

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  • 1 month later...
  • 2 weeks later...

Alright! Here is the second and final part of this story. I hope you enjoy!

---

For a moment, cold fear rushed down my veins, my reaction to being suddenly and urgently awoken by anything. And then, for a split second, I wanted to laugh. To be awoken like an air raid siren, only it was by my husband’s nose! Granted he could compete with an air raid siren when his hayfever really got going…

But all thought of laughing drained away when I looked at his face, and oh god… it was obvious that he wanted to sneeze as badly as he’d wanted anything ever. The oncoming sneeze must have been positively colossal. His morning sneezes were always enormous, even by his standards, all the itches that had built up overnight publishing their pent-up intensity in the form of his sleep-shattering sneezes, lengthy fits that could go on for five, seven, nine, ten sneezes, more… and sometimes a second round just as long and even more intense. Occasionally even a third round after that. But the itches that were strong enough to rouse him from sleep, to burn through all the body’s attempts to maintain rest, those didn’t tend to cause such lenghty fits, but the few sneezes that did erupt from him were among the loudest I’d ever heard him do. Let alone the thunder of his nose blowing, all restraint abandoned, just raw urge and the desire to do anything to purge the awful torture of the itch.

And if his face—a rictus of itchy, sneezy desperation—was any indication, this was an itch to beat all 2am sneezes. And here he was, pitched in a second-by-second, instant-by-instant struggle, having fought so hard to hold back long enough to even speak, to rouse me… how exhausting it must be for him. I could take that struggle from him. I could lead the charge against the invading allergens that tortured him into such explosions. So I reached under my pillow.

“Here, love. Here is your handkerchief,” I said, removing it quickly with one hand even as I slipped a finger beneath his nose with the other hand.He rubbed his nose against my finger almost unconsciously, desperately, anything for even the slightest relief. But that very desperation was why I couldn’t give him his handkerchief, not yet. It was a large red bandana, already folded over to withstand the pressure of his nose blowing as he liked. If I gave it to him now, he’d surely crush it to his face, and trumpet out a blow that would threaten to wake the whole block, let alone our neighbors upstairs.

No, it would take some cajoling. But first that sneeze needed to be forestalled. I leaned over him, propped up on my elbow, and slipped a finger under his nose. I pressed upward hard from beneath the septum, and from the way his rubbed his nose back and forth on my finger, almost animal-like, I could tell it was doing at least some good. Although from the way his nose leaked gentle fluid against my finger—he’d be mortified about that in the morning—I could also tell he really needed that nose blow.

“Before I give you your handkerchief, can you be a good boy for me and do a soft gentle blow? No big honks, remember?” He nodded violently, but I didn’t quite trust him yet. I knew—because he’d told me—what a relief a good, hard, loud noseblow was for him, a way of scratching all those itches all over his nose, chasing out the torturous tickle better even that one of his hollering sneezes could. So what a temptation it must be to do one of his big trumpeters, especially with an itch this bad. I felt for him. It must be maddening to be able to solve his most pressing problem, but to have to decide not to, to acquiesce to circumstance. And beyond all that… a loud, nose-clearing honk was what he was used to. He’d always blown his nose that way, or so he told me. It must feel downright unnatural to do the little his of air and moisture our middle-of-the-night situation required. No, it would take more than just a few head nods to get me to trust him in the face of all that temptation. He’d have to earn his hankie.

“No, I need you to tell me sweetie.” I insisted, though after a split-second’s thought, I worried the vibrations of speech might have an adverse effect on his nose, so I added: “Can you talk without that sneeze of yours blasting out?” He seemed to think about that for a second, scrunching and relaxing his itchy nose a few times, as though testing the tickle, before he finally nodded and gave me a stuffy “mhm.”

“So, what do I need you to do?”

“A sofd, geddle blow.” He said, the stuffiness more than obvious in his voice. He really needed that blow, didn’t he?

“Right, becaus good boys do soft blows. No waking the neighbors!”

He nodded.

“Are you a good boy? Are you gonna be a good boy for me?”

“I’b a good boy. S-sahhh… -sniff! sniff!- sofd blow.”

My heart caught for a moment as his breath hitched, but he managed to forestall the tickle with two wet, heavy sniffles. My heart broke for him then, knowing how he hated the sniffles. Still, I had to be careful. But I also didn’t have much time. Navigating his nose through the threat of a screaming hayfevery sneeze on one side, and a bellowing, nose-clearing blow on the other was a tricky task. But I was increasingly confident. I was up to it. I had his nose in control, even if he didn’t. I had him in control.

“Alright, sweetie, I trust you. But I’m still going to hold the hankie for you.” I said, as I nudged him into a seated position, no longer leaning over him but sitting right beside him, though I had to slide down the bed a bit to be able to face him. His face still looked to be the absolute pinnacle of allergic misery. Tears in his eyes, face blotchy and red, clear fluid still streaming from his nostrils. “Ohhh… your poor nose. Poor dear, your hayfever! Don’t worry baby, I’ve got you, I’ll help you with that tickly sniffer.” I cooed, as I slowly, carefully took my finger away from his nose. He took another itchy breath in, and for a moment I feared disaster would strike.

But the moment passed, and before he could take another breath, I had the hankie at his nose, wrapped around both of my hands, looped through my fingers, a thick, strong wall to contain the worst his nose could do. Just like he’d taught me. Just one more reminder. “Remember, gentle blow!” I whispered fervently, and for a moment the odd intimacy of the moment struck me. And then, he blew.

A small part of me still half-expected him to do a big one, even after all we’d said. But he did perfect. Soft, gentle, just the barest hint of a honk at the end as he took a deep breath in through his mouth to blow again. “That’s it, darling, that’s right, such a good boy, doing that soft blow just like I asked you. Perfect man.” I whispered endearments and encouragments to him, as he emptied his nose into the looped bandana, the furious rush of air strong but blessedly quiet. I maneuvered it for him, making sure he had a dry spot to blow into, telling him how good he was doing, taking care of my hayfevery man and his big, itchy, tortured, allergic nose.

I could tell it was more of that clear, runny fluid coming out at first, but before long a sluice of thicker, heavy congestion came out. Just as it started, I saw him take in a deeper breath than before, and I just knew he was about to go for one of his foghorn blows.

“Remember!” I interrupted him, and he half-emptied his lungs, whether out of confusion or obedience I was uncertain. “Good boys do soft nose-blows, don’t they? Listen to me carefully.”

He nodded, and I thought I heard a mumbled “yes, good boys...,” before he again gave a soft, perfect blow.

He kept blowing those gentle noseblows, and for a moment I thought I might need to get him another, clean bandana. But just before I was going to inquire, he stopped, and relaxed.

“That nose of yours all taken care of, sweetie?”

He nodded, and gave a small, sleepy smile.

“You were such a good boy for me.” I said, and gave him a kiss, suddenly feeling quite sleepy myself.

I heard a murmured “mhm” but it was clear he was already drifting back to sleep. I sat the used bandana on the nightstand; it sorely needed a wash tomorrow morning. But that was a problem for the morning. Our 2am problem had been solved. We’d won the battle against his nose. At least for now. But in the morning, he could take care of it on his own.

At first I thought I was dreaming about his nose, having spent so much time with it in the middle of the night, but he soon startled me awake.

“HAAAAAAAAAHH-CCHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” He bellowed. “Oh, oh, so s-sorry to w-wake you dear but… b-buhhh… HHHHAAAAAAHHTTT-CCHHOOOOOOOOOO!!! Ohh, my nose.”

I couldn’t help but take a look at my phone. 8am. A perfectly fine time to sneeze.

“Oh, I woke with the worst tickle in my nose, dear… where is my handkerchief? I really need to blow my no… noseeeEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTCCCHHHH-HHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

I smiled, and propped myself up in the bed, and pulled one of his bandanas from the drawer. Thinking of last night with a slightly naughty warmth, I looped it around my fingers, pressed it to his face and said with a grin, “alright, darling. It’s the morning now. So be a good boy and give me a big, big noseblow…”

Edited by Mr. Black Cherry Berry Tea
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So perfect - such a good, compliant boy holding back to get that eventual relief into the handkerchief. 

And I'm still sure I recognise my nose - you captured it so well, thank you!

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17 hours ago, Rick said:

So perfect - such a good, compliant boy holding back to get that eventual relief into the handkerchief. 

I read this comment on the home page which made me want to read and that chaste d/s nose play was *fans self*

Very hot  ~ Thank you! 

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Great job so far! Maybe you could do a trying to hide scenario next. The only thing that I think would make this better would be more finger under nose hold backs.

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This had me hooked from the very first paragraph. I loved it. I’m going to be greedy and beg for another chapter. Wow!

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  • 3 months later...

I've only just found this, and it's one of the hottest things I've ever read. The chaste d/s stuff really ticked all my boxes. Thank you!!

On 5/21/2020 at 10:53 PM, Rick said:

So perfect - such a good, compliant boy holding back to get that eventual relief into the handkerchief. 

...and this ticked boxes all over again!  * Goes off for cold shower *

Edited by snuffle-bunny
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On 8/31/2020 at 5:10 PM, snuffle-bunny said:

I've only just found this, and it's one of the hottest things I've ever read. The chaste d/s stuff really ticked all my boxes. Thank you!!

...and this ticked boxes all over again!  * Goes off for cold shower *

Hi Snuffle Bunny, 

Was great to see this comment on Mr BCBT's story. I can't take any credit for it as it was all his incredible writing, but we'd spent a lot of time chatting while he developed it about my nose, how I blow it, the kind of handkerchief I prefer and how I use them. I love the end result!!

Hope you're keeping okay, haven't been in touch in ages. I'm on kik if you want to chat (see profile).

Edited by Rick
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  • 2 years later...

Sorry to necro, but this is probably my favorite piece of yours, well-done! Very creative scenario for needing to hold back.

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On 5/21/2020 at 5:45 PM, Mr. Black Cherry Berry Tea said:

Alright! Here is the second and final part of this story. I hope you enjoy!

---

For a moment, cold fear rushed down my veins, my reaction to being suddenly and urgently awoken by anything. And then, for a split second, I wanted to laugh. To be awoken like an air raid siren, only it was by my husband’s nose! Granted he could compete with an air raid siren when his hayfever really got going…

But all thought of laughing drained away when I looked at his face, and oh god… it was obvious that he wanted to sneeze as badly as he’d wanted anything ever. The oncoming sneeze must have been positively colossal. His morning sneezes were always enormous, even by his standards, all the itches that had built up overnight publishing their pent-up intensity in the form of his sleep-shattering sneezes, lengthy fits that could go on for five, seven, nine, ten sneezes, more… and sometimes a second round just as long and even more intense. Occasionally even a third round after that. But the itches that were strong enough to rouse him from sleep, to burn through all the body’s attempts to maintain rest, those didn’t tend to cause such lenghty fits, but the few sneezes that did erupt from him were among the loudest I’d ever heard him do. Let alone the thunder of his nose blowing, all restraint abandoned, just raw urge and the desire to do anything to purge the awful torture of the itch.

And if his face—a rictus of itchy, sneezy desperation—was any indication, this was an itch to beat all 2am sneezes. And here he was, pitched in a second-by-second, instant-by-instant struggle, having fought so hard to hold back long enough to even speak, to rouse me… how exhausting it must be for him. I could take that struggle from him. I could lead the charge against the invading allergens that tortured him into such explosions. So I reached under my pillow.

“Here, love. Here is your handkerchief,” I said, removing it quickly with one hand even as I slipped a finger beneath his nose with the other hand.He rubbed his nose against my finger almost unconsciously, desperately, anything for even the slightest relief. But that very desperation was why I couldn’t give him his handkerchief, not yet. It was a large red bandana, already folded over to withstand the pressure of his nose blowing as he liked. If I gave it to him now, he’d surely crush it to his face, and trumpet out a blow that would threaten to wake the whole block, let alone our neighbors upstairs.

No, it would take some cajoling. But first that sneeze needed to be forestalled. I leaned over him, propped up on my elbow, and slipped a finger under his nose. I pressed upward hard from beneath the septum, and from the way his rubbed his nose back and forth on my finger, almost animal-like, I could tell it was doing at least some good. Although from the way his nose leaked gentle fluid against my finger—he’d be mortified about that in the morning—I could also tell he really needed that nose blow.

“Before I give you your handkerchief, can you be a good boy for me and do a soft gentle blow? No big honks, remember?” He nodded violently, but I didn’t quite trust him yet. I knew—because he’d told me—what a relief a good, hard, loud noseblow was for him, a way of scratching all those itches all over his nose, chasing out the torturous tickle better even that one of his hollering sneezes could. So what a temptation it must be to do one of his big trumpeters, especially with an itch this bad. I felt for him. It must be maddening to be able to solve his most pressing problem, but to have to decide not to, to acquiesce to circumstance. And beyond all that… a loud, nose-clearing honk was what he was used to. He’d always blown his nose that way, or so he told me. It must feel downright unnatural to do the little his of air and moisture our middle-of-the-night situation required. No, it would take more than just a few head nods to get me to trust him in the face of all that temptation. He’d have to earn his hankie.

“No, I need you to tell me sweetie.” I insisted, though after a split-second’s thought, I worried the vibrations of speech might have an adverse effect on his nose, so I added: “Can you talk without that sneeze of yours blasting out?” He seemed to think about that for a second, scrunching and relaxing his itchy nose a few times, as though testing the tickle, before he finally nodded and gave me a stuffy “mhm.”

“So, what do I need you to do?”

“A sofd, geddle blow.” He said, the stuffiness more than obvious in his voice. He really needed that blow, didn’t he?

“Right, becaus good boys do soft blows. No waking the neighbors!”

He nodded.

“Are you a good boy? Are you gonna be a good boy for me?”

“I’b a good boy. S-sahhh… -sniff! sniff!- sofd blow.”

My heart caught for a moment as his breath hitched, but he managed to forestall the tickle with two wet, heavy sniffles. My heart broke for him then, knowing how he hated the sniffles. Still, I had to be careful. But I also didn’t have much time. Navigating his nose through the threat of a screaming hayfevery sneeze on one side, and a bellowing, nose-clearing blow on the other was a tricky task. But I was increasingly confident. I was up to it. I had his nose in control, even if he didn’t. I had him in control.

“Alright, sweetie, I trust you. But I’m still going to hold the hankie for you.” I said, as I nudged him into a seated position, no longer leaning over him but sitting right beside him, though I had to slide down the bed a bit to be able to face him. His face still looked to be the absolute pinnacle of allergic misery. Tears in his eyes, face blotchy and red, clear fluid still streaming from his nostrils. “Ohhh… your poor nose. Poor dear, your hayfever! Don’t worry baby, I’ve got you, I’ll help you with that tickly sniffer.” I cooed, as I slowly, carefully took my finger away from his nose. He took another itchy breath in, and for a moment I feared disaster would strike.

But the moment passed, and before he could take another breath, I had the hankie at his nose, wrapped around both of my hands, looped through my fingers, a thick, strong wall to contain the worst his nose could do. Just like he’d taught me. Just one more reminder. “Remember, gentle blow!” I whispered fervently, and for a moment the odd intimacy of the moment struck me. And then, he blew.

A small part of me still half-expected him to do a big one, even after all we’d said. But he did perfect. Soft, gentle, just the barest hint of a honk at the end as he took a deep breath in through his mouth to blow again. “That’s it, darling, that’s right, such a good boy, doing that soft blow just like I asked you. Perfect man.” I whispered endearments and encouragments to him, as he emptied his nose into the looped bandana, the furious rush of air strong but blessedly quiet. I maneuvered it for him, making sure he had a dry spot to blow into, telling him how good he was doing, taking care of my hayfevery man and his big, itchy, tortured, allergic nose.

I could tell it was more of that clear, runny fluid coming out at first, but before long a sluice of thicker, heavy congestion came out. Just as it started, I saw him take in a deeper breath than before, and I just knew he was about to go for one of his foghorn blows.

“Remember!” I interrupted him, and he half-emptied his lungs, whether out of confusion or obedience I was uncertain. “Good boys do soft nose-blows, don’t they? Listen to me carefully.”

He nodded, and I thought I heard a mumbled “yes, good boys...,” before he again gave a soft, perfect blow.

He kept blowing those gentle noseblows, and for a moment I thought I might need to get him another, clean bandana. But just before I was going to inquire, he stopped, and relaxed.

“That nose of yours all taken care of, sweetie?”

He nodded, and gave a small, sleepy smile.

“You were such a good boy for me.” I said, and gave him a kiss, suddenly feeling quite sleepy myself.

I heard a murmured “mhm” but it was clear he was already drifting back to sleep. I sat the used bandana on the nightstand; it sorely needed a wash tomorrow morning. But that was a problem for the morning. Our 2am problem had been solved. We’d won the battle against his nose. At least for now. But in the morning, he could take care of it on his own.

At first I thought I was dreaming about his nose, having spent so much time with it in the middle of the night, but he soon startled me awake.

“HAAAAAAAAAHH-CCHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” He bellowed. “Oh, oh, so s-sorry to w-wake you dear but… b-buhhh… HHHHAAAAAAHHTTT-CCHHOOOOOOOOOO!!! Ohh, my nose.”

I couldn’t help but take a look at my phone. 8am. A perfectly fine time to sneeze.

“Oh, I woke with the worst tickle in my nose, dear… where is my handkerchief? I really need to blow my no… noseeeEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTCCCHHHH-HHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

I smiled, and propped myself up in the bed, and pulled one of his bandanas from the drawer. Thinking of last night with a slightly naughty warmth, I looped it around my fingers, pressed it to his face and said with a grin, “alright, darling. It’s the morning now. So be a good boy and give me a big, big noseblow…”

Really love this story! Adorable and amazingly written! 

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